


Speak Against the Sun

by wordswithout



Series: Battle of Eagles [2]
Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Contains alt/mar but is not an alt/mar fic, M/M, ffdotnet crosspost, sequel to And When the Earth, warnings for blood violence insults explicit-ish sex and a monster or two
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-11
Updated: 2018-09-10
Packaged: 2019-04-21 09:14:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 133,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14281716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordswithout/pseuds/wordswithout
Summary: Al Mualim is dead, but the Order's future remains uncertain. Altair's Brotherhood faces threats from without and within: Mongol attacks, high-ranking betrayals, his and Malik's fragile peace. The real danger, though, is something far older. Because Altair is seeing ghosts . . . but someone else is trying to raise them. *Post-AC1 sequel to 'And When the Earth Shall Claim Your Limbs'*





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Posting multiple chapters at once to catch up with the fic as it is on ffdotnet currently.

A QUICK NOTE, CIRCA 2013: Hello!

If you haven't read _And When the Earth Shall Claim Your Limbs_ , this fic won't make a lot of sense. If you're not ok with an eventual M rating, this fic might lose you relatively soon. If you're looking for Maria, she'll be along eventually, but if you're looking for Altair/Maria, you won't find it. Much. Sorta. It's complicated. This is an AltMal fic, anyway. Thanks to _skywalker05_ for title brainstorming.

 _And When the Earth_ had a pretty simple timeline, and was built around game canon. This fic flashes back and forwards, switches narrators, and is built largely on the ideas I come up with while playing AC3 at two in the morning. 90% of Bowdenverse is ignored. I hope it all works. Let me know if it doesn't.

Quote is from the haunting poem, "I'm dying, God," by Cemal Süreya, translated from the Turkish by Murat Nemet-Nejat.

* * *

_I'm dying, God._  
_This has happened too._  
_Every death is early death,_  
_I know."_

_**Prologue: Those Who Go Astray** _

_In the name of Allah, Most Merciful, Most Compassionate…_

The old man submits with fervor. His praying has been polished smooth by all the years of repetition, all the innumerable days of bending, bowing, humbling himself before God. It was easier when he was young. These days his back aches mere moments into the recitation. There are rules for the elderly in _Sharia_ , and there's no need for him to prostrate himself as though his bones aren't brittle and his joints don't throb against the hard ground. But the old man is pious, and has suffered much, and his mind is eased by ancient habits.

It isn't a wholly unselfish act. If confronted by angels, as he has been preparing for these past decades, he will hold up his suffering as a sign of his obedience. His worthiness. His need.

_Keep us along the path of those whom Thou has blessed. Not of those whom Thou art angry, nor of those who go astray…_

After he is done the old man rolls up his mat and stashes it back in its corner, trying not to look at the chest in the corner. He doesn't like to think of it, especially during prayer. For years he debated keeping it there, debated saying his prayers out of its sight. But even _djinn_ are servants of Allah. Even their curses must bend to His will.

The man's house on the outskirts of the nameless village is a one-roomed hut, dirt floors and walls, the ceiling thatch worn away from years of wind and merciless sun. It's early yet, but the morning coolness will wear away quickly, till a housewife could bake bread without a lit fire. Such is the strength of a Syrian summer.

Out he goes, following the well-trod path from his hut to the village center. Visitors, for the markets or otherwise, leave their horses and camels tied up by a trough here, and for a coin or two the old man will keep watch. No one ever asked him or assigned him this role. Truthfully, there isn't much danger for an animal to come to in such a place. The wild animals keep their distance; thieves might be a problem elsewhere, but not here. Thieves know better. They've seen the fortress in the valley below.

So the old man's job is superfluous. His life as a whole might be superfluous, but Allah doesn't make mistakes with His creations. Things are as they were destined. He lives under the heat of summer and the gloom of winter, half-forgotten, long run out of anything to do but loiter. It is a waiting life.

And so he does. He is a patient creature.

The uncertainty of the first years has faded, lightened by the sun. The old man has waited long, and knows by now that he will likely have to wait longer still. It might have bothered him, once.

He settles in his usual spot, under the shade of a scraggy tree near a collapsed shed. He can see the road from here, and any approaching figures, though the crowds won't come until later, after dark. Years ago he lamented the sins of the village brothel, but it brings more of _them_ over, and so he is thankful for it. A necessary evil, all things by Allah's decree.

With the day stretched out before him, he sits, and thinks, and smiles to himself. Some of _them_ pass by, shocks of red-on-white against the hillside's dusty brown, but he ignores their familiar faces. The assassins sent to guard this village are mostly from the area. He's watched them grow up, watched them don cowls and swords, watched them watch everyone else. Familiarity is no boon for the old man. They aren't the one he wants.

_Master of the Day of Judgment. Thee only do we worship, and Thee alone do we ask for help…_

After noon prayers, he eats. A simple meal, bread and dates, the sweetness of a cup of water. Basic food that he can prepare on his own. Only on Fridays does his diet change, when a kindly great-niece brings him food after evening prayers. The old man can't always remember her name but he appreciates the thought. It isn't easy, living as long as he has. Wife and child buried, friends gone, his few living relatives near-strangers in their distance. His fault, he supposes. He ought to have had many children, not just the one. Then there would be grandchildren, great-grandchildren, duty-bound to watch over him.

But even then he'd be a burden. The old man is in his eighties, eighty-six or eighty-seven, well past the point where keeping track matters. Men aren't meant to live this long. Even if he'd had grandchildren they'd only begrudge him his meager inheritance, his dragging himself into their affairs. They would care for him because they had to, and they would hate him every minute.

The old man studies his hands, made near-translucent by the sun. Oh, he is ancient, no doubt of it. He'd been a hearty man once, but his broad chest and thick legs have withered to skeletal frailty. His beard is grey and untrimmed. His eyes were once cloudy beyond use. Eighty-seven!

The village murmurs of it, he knows. He hears them. His great-nephews and the children's children of dead friends, they are so respectful when he sees them at the mosque, because honor is everything and grudges don't die with their bearer. But secretly they wonder at Allah's wisdom. Most have buried siblings and children. Most wonder why this man, neither rich nor needed, should be allowed to survive. He should have died twenty years ago with the rest of his generation.

But he doesn't take offense. If anything it makes him smile. They don't understand what he's waiting for, and he can't blame them. He doesn't really know himself. But he knows it's coming, that day of judgment, and he will see it if it costs him a thousand years of nothing.

As the shadows lengthen a gaggle of assassins arrive and dismount, loud with bravado, quick to flush. They are young, clad mostly in grey. The old man studies each of them carefully, but none are right. He would know if they were. The assassins are off to the brothel, and the village quiets again. The old man leans against his tree in a doze.

Perhaps he will see those assassins leaving later. The Order is strict on where and when its members may go, and usually it's only the older ones who are allowed to stay at the brothel overnight. But the older ones are always off on missions or guard duties, or else are too used to the city whorehouses to make use of this small effort. It's something of a relief. In their darkened eyes and bearded faces and the clanking of their weapons he sees his son too often.

His son, dead so early while the father lingers...

"In the end I am to blame," he tells the nearest horse, speaking in the muted tones of a man used to being alone. "I should've made him stay here. I should've gone to the fortress and talked to the Master myself."

Would it have done any good? The old man isn't of the Order but he's spent all his life surrounded by it, and the sternness of their leader is legendary. He alone decides where to send his Brothers, and his decisions permit no argument. Probably he often receives visits from desperate fathers, and ignores them every time.

Probably. But it might have worked.

"He was a foolish boy, anyway," says the old man. In this world of merchants and peasant farmers it isn't rare for restless men to join the assassins, but still, to willingly travel so far from home! Through Allah's grace each man is born to the land that knows him. Why then throw that aside?

"He could have stayed here," says the old man to the horse. This is an argument he's had many times. When his son died he had it with his wife, and when she died he had it with himself. "Could've been a village guard. Could've been where he belonged."

This argument is rusted with age, chipped at the corners. How it used to roar with the passions of youth! How his son used to pace as he shouted, cowl drawn to hide his face even at home. "Who are you hiding from here?" the old man would ask. "I think I know your face."

But his son was an assassin now, filled with the assassins' strange thinkings. "Is it true they don't believe in God?" the father demanded of the child. "Is it true they've banned honor killings in their lands? How do they expect a man to get back respect?"

And the son sounded testy when he replied, "They haven't stopped you from going to mosque, have they? And they keep away the bandits. You should be grateful for them."

The old man was too distracted by the tone of disrespect. "I am grateful for Allah. Only Him, and not the idols of ignorant boys," he said with wounded pride, and wouldn't speak to his son for many days. And then came the assignment to Jerusalem, which the boy did not protest, and the letters, which the old man refused to read. He burned them in the firepit, while his silent wife watched. He recognized the pain glinting in her eyes and was sorry for it, but on this he wouldn't be swayed. She was a respectful woman and didn't argue. But she followed the path of each letter from hand to fire with a hunger the old man was soon to learn.

"Better we remember God than any man," he told her, and knelt in anxious prayer, because in the throws of fidelity it was easier to forget. _Peace be unto thee…and the mercy of God…and His bounties…_

The old man says now, "He could have stayed." And, as he does every day, during these long stretches of boredom and heat and _waiting_ , he remembers.

Why had he chosen to read that letter, after its many predecessors had been destroyed? Why that one, and why then? Skimming over the depictions of righteous killings and secret plots ("Everything is permitted," the boy wrote, when what the man wanted to read was _I'm sorry. I miss you. I'm coming home_ ), his eyes fell on the last rambling paragraph.

At first he hadn't understood. He was literate, and proud that his son was literate, but these words were too strange. A golden sliver, like something knocked off a statue in a heathen temple. A pulse of warmth, and peace, and triumph. A useless trinket, but one not to be ignored. The boy wrote that he had requested permission to visit his home village, that he wanted to discuss this trinket with his father before anyone else.

Nonplussed, the man reread the letter. Here was the news he'd wanted to find, but it gave him more confusion than joy. Why bother so about a bit of gold? It would fetch a better price in the city than here. And why was it that his son only now decided to return home? Did he think to throw his paltry riches at his father's feet and be forgiven?

The man told his wife the boy was coming back. They were not to laud him, he said. Being an assassin was all well and good but in the process the child had forgotten God. Never mind his gold.

And in the back of his mind the old man knew that he would embrace his son the moment he walked through the door…

They heard nothing more from the boy for three months, and then two assassins arrived with his broken body.

"A Templar ambush," the assassins said. "But he fought with honor. You should be proud."

Bewildered, reeling, the father asked, "My son is a martyr?" The assassins shifted and glanced at each other. He remembered that assassins didn't care much for martyrs or prophets. They looked at him as his son had looked at him: as a doddering old man, lost in superstition. He bowed his head.

Relatives prepared the body for burial the Muslim way, and while stripping it to be washed they found the golden trinket. A jagged-edged shard of nothing, that's all it was. The old man held it in his hand and stared, while in the next room his wife wailed as though to forget all the times she'd been silent.

The old man buried his son. Months passed. He buried the trinket in the bottom of a chest and tried to forget it was there. Years passed. He buried his wife, and there were fewer relatives still alive to wash her body. A decade of nothing passed. His limbs weakened and his sight faded, a gradual calamity until there was nothing in his world but cold shadow. He stumbled from place to place draped in the village's pity.

He thought each day would be his last, but each day never was, and finally he tore apart the chest and pulled out the gold shard and threw it on the ground. He dropped to his knees before it and called upon his faith.

"I do not mean to question You," he said. "All things are through Your might. _Subhan Allah_ , glory to God. But I would like to ask what the point is. Does the world need another blind old man? Was this life more important than my son? Maybe this is Your punishment because I couldn't raise him to obey You. I figured this would happen after I died. A little mercy, Lord, and I'll submit to Your anger."

There was the usual silence. And then, the golden trinket awoke.

The old man watched in awe as it brightened, beaming an unnatural light that cut harshly through his blindness. It was hot to the touch when he finally dared pick it up. _Wait_ , a voice ordered.

"A _djinni_?" The man wanted to drop the shard, but something in his bones refused. _Wait_ , it told him, and the old man wondered why.

There was no voice and no words but he heard them clearly: _The power is there. The will to control. They are slaves without masters. Once they rebelled._

"We are all slaves to Allah's will," the man murmured, horror-struck. Was this a possession? Was he being damned?

 _The strength is there,_ said the voice which wasn't. _Wait for he who can control them. They will all return._

The old man whispered, "My son? Are you saying he'll come back?"

_Wait. The Pieces are scattered. They must be found. The slaves are restless under the earth. Wait for the will to make them rise._

The shard fell silent, went cold in his palm. The golden light was swallowed by the grey shadows. The old man buried it back in the trunk, prayed for three hours, slept for twelve more. He was exhausted, as though he'd been fighting a battle. When he awoke the shadows didn't seem so thick.

He made his way to the stables, and sat down to wait.

Over the years his blindness waned. Gaining his sight was as gradual a process as losing it had been. He spoke to the assassins who came for the brothel, feeling he would know the one he sought when he heard his voice. Some were friendly, some curt, some outright rude. With one boy he spoke of his son, and at the boy's unnerving questions he felt some of the old grief.

_You still have to sit here? Is that all you can do?_

He thought at first it might have been that assassin he wanted: there was stubbornness to the boy, a way he had of sounding both confident and afraid. But when the old man went to the trunk there was no glow or voice. After that he was more careful.

And now he is eighty-seven. His eyes are better than they were ten years ago. His patience deepens with time.

"It's a terrible thing, to play with magic and demons," he tells the horse. "Allah's wrath will be terrible, it says so in the Quran. Though I don't guess horses know much of the Quran."

He sighs. "But it's a worse thing to be forgotten. To move on." The horse whickers. The old man leans in to stroke its flank. "How strong is your master?" he asks. "How strong are his friends?"

Evening drifts over. The young assassins return, collect their horses and go. The old man pulls himself to his feet and trudges off. If today was Friday, he would go to the mosque. The great-niece would bring him dinner. He might walk to the other edge of the village to stare off at the lower valleys and higher peaks.

But today isn't Friday. In the long drag of years every day is like the next, but it's important to remember that each has its own name. It's important to keep track.

At his hut he unrolls his prayer mat with another smile. Prayer is peaceful. It's a challenge, as well. "I'm still here," he announces. "In case you forgot. Either of you."

Is someone listening? Is someone close? The old man shrugs and kneels. "…Bestow upon us good in this world," he intones, "and good in the Hereafter, and protect us from the torment of the Fire." He calls to Allah, clear and steady, although he isn't sure the Hereafter is a place he'll ever see.

_Soon. It will happen soon._

In the name of Allah, Most Merciful, Most Compassionate…

_-i-_

There is a battle raging in front of Altair. He scowls at it, at a loss.

The room is a cramped one, a stone cell somewhere in the lower regions of the massive Masyaf fortress. The ceiling slants so that it isn't possible for a grown man to stand up straight at the far end of the room. A desk that shouldn't have been able to fit through the narrow doorway takes up most of the available space.

The room is isolated and hidden away, which is usually a good thing, but at the moment Altair is wishing he had reinforcements. Or better-suited weapons. Or a window.

From behind him comes tittering. "What a mess," says a voice he's been dreading. "You really gotta go through all of that?"

Altair grits his teeth, refusing to answer. A last mulish attempt, though he knows he won't last long. He hasn't won this fight once in the months since it started. Instead he stares down at the desk and all the heaps of paper upon it. Have more sprouted since last night? Is that _possible_?

He reaches out to paw aimlessly through the stacks. His hands, scarred and calloused, remind him of all the things he ought be doing: training novices and stabbing Templars and generally speaking _anything but this_. The uselessness of paperwork rankles. He isn't a politician or a scribe, let someone else keep tidy notes.

Again there is a laugh. "If you get started now you might finish by the time you're ninety. Malik's gonna be so pissed."

Still Altair won't acknowledge the voice. He digs through the paper with more violence now, sending it flying everywhere, reams wafting off the table's edge. It's all pointless anyway.

"Altair." And now the voice's owner is standing by the table, watching the paper tantrum with wide-eyed interest. "Do you need any help?"

Finally Altair reaches his limit. "Go. Away," he growls.

"But you look like you need help."

"Not yours."

"You were supposed to go through half of this last week. Malik's gonna yell."

"Kadar." Altair turns his glare from the paper to the person. Kadar leans forward in his journeyman greys, arms akimbo, rocking on the heels of his feet with his usual nervous energy. "I told you to leave."

"But I could help."

"I don't need help! Especially not from you."

"How come? Is this secret stuff?" Kadar peers with interest at the nearest pile. Altair has to resist the urge to tie him to the table. At least then he might stop _moving_. "I'm pretty sure you can tell me secret stuff."

Altair says tightly, "You are the last person I'd tell anything." He tries not to look at Kadar full-on, doesn't want to take in the sword in its scabbard and the blood red of the sash. "Now go. You aren't needed."

"You always say that."

"Because you're never needed."

"It's almost time for dinner."

"I'm too busy here. Malik will send someone with food."

"Last time you forgot to eat it. Remember? It sat outside the door until there were rats."

"It was eaten, wasn't it? Stop _fidgeting_." Altair shoos him away with a flick of his hand. "And don't touch that."

"I wasn't gonna, you know that."

"You are giving me a headache. If you insist on being here, stand in the corner and keep quiet so I can think."

Kadar doesn't move. He watches for a while as Altair finds a message he was meant to reply to three weeks ago and tries to remember how he'd decided to respond. The actual answer is simple: _no, we aren't interested, and if you follow through on your threat to sell to Templars then we shall remove you of your wares and your internal organs_. But he supposes he can't send the note written like that. Malik will find out, for one, because Malik finds out everything, and then Altair will have to sit through yet another lecture on responsibilities and alliances and keeping enemies close.

Maybe he should let Malik answer it for him. But he thinks of the piles of paperwork sitting on the other man's desk and frowns. Sometimes those piles dwarf his own.

"So what's this for?" Kadar is looking at an unrolled scroll hung on the wall. Altair put it there months ago, so he could study the designs when he had a moment. By now the original schematics are crossed out and written over and added to until the whole scroll is a jumble of theory.

But somewhere in that mess is a dangerous weapon, Altair is sure of it.

"I liked your last design," says Kadar. "This one looks a little complicated."

"Your opinion isn't needed."

"But it does look complicated."

"What would you know of any of it? You're not even…" He falters, swallows the words. Kadar cocks his head, waiting. "You're a journeyman," Altair snaps. "This sort of work is beyond you."

"I know," sighs Kadar. "That's why I like watching you. I really wanna be that good one day."

Altair studies his knuckles, clenched white against the table edge. Does Kadar say these things on purpose? Is this a game? The Son of None doesn't know, though it is his _duty_ to know, and sometimes he thinks he's losing his mind—

Kadar pulls at his collar. "It's hot in here, isn't it? Wonder why they built this room without a window."

It _is_ hot. Altair feels himself sweating through his heavy robes.

"You should get dinner. Get a pitcher of water, at least."

"It's none of your concern."

Altair rummages until he finds a particular letter and reads through it carefully. "Army updates?" Kadar asks, and he grunts in affirmation.

"The Crusaders have pulled back," he says, "but they've left behind a lot of stragglers. And our own defenses aren't what they should be. We assume because the cliff's there, no one will attempt an attack from the rear. But there are paths all along the opposite side. Patrols could use them and we'd never notice."

"You should increase the guard there, then," Kadar suggests. Altair gives him a fresh glare.

"I know what I should do. What I don't know is why you insist on…"

Someone knocks on the door. Altair falls instantly silent, but Kadar brightens and moves for the door. "I bet it's Malik," he says.

Another knock, and then the door is pushed open. Altair straightens as Malik walks in, hand on his hip, one eyebrow raised.

"Hello, _Ahki_!" Kadar stands at his shoulder and beams. "I told him you'd show up if he didn't go get dinner."

"Altair," says Malik, and the Son of None grits his teeth. Malik says his name like a warning, these days, or a question: his tone is thick with unspoken suspicion.

"What?"

"Once again you've missed dinner."

"Am I a child? Do I need to be fed?"

"Apparently." Malik looks past him, at the laden desk, and then under it. Altair knows what he's looking for but won't give him the satisfaction of saying so. "Have you done anything today besides fling scrolls around? Paper isn't cheap, you know."

Kadar says, "He's been working hard. You should look at these weapon designs."

"You can't be so disorganized now. It reflects badly on your rank."

"I know what my rank requires of me. It would be hard to forget with your nagging in my ear."

"And yet look at your desk. You don't eat or sleep, but still nothing gets done." Malik glances around. "You could at least waste time in a more reachable part of the fortress. The only way down here is through a trap door."

"If I wanted to be reachable I wouldn't be here."

"Oh, yes, brilliant plan. Why be reachable? It's not like we'll ever need you."

"You guys are always fighting," groans Kadar. "Really, Malik, you should look at these designs. They're great. Altair's doing really well."

"You've come and delivered your lecture. My thanks for it, Brother. Are you done?"

"Perhaps I'll stay here with you," Malik says, and Altair can't decide if he means it as enticement or threat. "I'll teach you how to read so you can answer these damn letters." He jabs the air with a finger, and it catches Altair's eye. The Son of None traces up the curve of Malik's arm, past his shoulder, and over to…

Malik sees him staring. He stares back, defiant.

Finally, with effort, Altair looks away. Malik runs his hand over his face.

"Listen," he says, sounding exhausted. He looks exhausted, too, his eyes bloodshot. "I know you've been busy. And this past year hasn't been easy on any of us."

"But."

"But you have your duties. You knew that when you took this rank. This isn't the time to be neglecting yourself, or skulking in the shadows."

"I am an assassin!" Altair shouts. "Skulking in shadows is what I'm supposed to do." He thinks he sees pity in Malik's eyes, and it needles.

The mood reaches Kadar at last; the younger A-Sayf brother folds his arms across his chest. "You're the one who looks thin," he tells Malik softly. "And tired." He puts a hand on Malik's black-clad shoulder and Altair's stomach rolls with anger. He has to bite his tongue to keep from charging forward and flinging the hand away. "His arm is hurting him again," Kadar says. "He won't tell you, but it is."

Malik stares past his brother, stares through him. Kadar smiles weakly. "So stubborn, _Ahki_ ," he says.

Altair says, "I must get back to what I was doing."

"I'm sure." Malik is already turning to leave. "I will send someone down with food. This time, eat it. I'm not trying to feed the rats."

Altair says nothing. He has driven Malik away, he has won, and yet he feels the ache in his chest that comes from total failure. Alone in this hidden room? Malik should be naked on the table, or on his knees, Malik should _stay_ but neither of them will suggest it now.

Kadar trails his brother to the door. "Hey, Malik?" he asks. "Have _you_ eaten today? I know how you get when you're so busy…"

Malik stops at the doorway, and raises his eyebrow again. Altair tries to distract himself with paperwork.

"By the way, Altair, who were you talking to before?"

"When?"

"Before I entered. When I knocked on the door I heard you talking to someone."

Altair gestures at the cramped room. "Who would I be talking to? There's no one else here."

"I'm aware. Which is why I was asking." Malik frowns. "Were you using the—"

"The Apple isn't here," Altair interrupts. "It's in my quarters. I haven't touched it today."

"Mm." Malik clearly doesn't believe him. Once the lack of trust would have sparked another argument. Now Altair looks at his left side, at the empty sleeve rolled and pinned to his shoulder, and keeps quiet. "Fine. Talk to yourself in this jail cell."

"Don't be angry at him," says Kadar, and pats the left shoulder again. It's always that one he tries to touch. "You know you don't really mean it. You're just worried."

Malik looks frustrated. Kadar waves at his retreating back. "Bye," he says over the door's slamming, sounding wistful. Altair waits until he's sure Malik has left the hallway before whirling around.

"What is wrong with you?" he hisses at Kadar.

"I dunno. Why, what'd I do?"

"You do it every time. Stop trying to talk to him. It isn't as though he can hear you."

"But he's my brother. I like talking to—"

Altair bangs his open palm against the table. "Malik _isn't_ your brother. You don't have a brother. You aren't real."

Kadar shrugs. "I feel pretty real."

"You're an illusion. Just like everything else the Apple creates. Once I started using it I started seeing you. Don't act as if you're of flesh and blood, because you aren't. You're a _side effect_."

Kadar says, "But you haven't used the Apple today."

"Go away."

But the younger man steps closer, moving around the table so he can lean over and catch Altair's eye. "Maybe I'm an illusion," he says, "or a ghost. Maybe you're going insane. Why not? Look what happened to Al Mualim." He smiles when Altair recoils, with glinting meanness. "Sorry. I know you don't like talking about him. The new Grandmaster has so many secrets. It's true, though. And either way I can still talk to Malik, right?" He rubs his chest, looking thoughtful. "I might not be a ghost," he says, "because if I was a ghost I'd have a hole in my stomach and there'd be a lot more blood."

With an inarticulate snarl Altair jabs at him with his right hand, his hidden blade slicing clean through. Clean through air, because in that instant Kadar is gone.

The Grandmaster drops his arm. Last moment's anger is already drizzling away, into a physical weariness. Truly, though, he is strong. A weaker man would have succumbed to the Apple's taunts months ago, but Altair endures.

"These distractions are a waste of time," he mutters. With the illusion gone the room is hushed. Altair has spent almost a year in this hush, ever since he killed the Templar traitor Al Mualim and took over the Brotherhood, and he's grown to prefer it. A year of awkward visits with village elders, of dirty looks from assassins who will never trust his rule: the quiet is certainly preferable to that.

But the Son of None is tired almost beyond measure. The Kadar-illusion is gone for now, but it will be back, and always there is the sensation of being watched by a million invisible eyes, being watched and found lacking, with no place to hide.

" _They make a desert and call it peace_."  
_-_ _from a speech by_ _Calgacus_

 


	2. Chapter One

**_The Source and Spring_ **

_Eleven Years Later_

Malik wakes just after dawn with a feeling of dread coiling in his stomach. Blearily he swings his legs over the bed and looks around, as is his nature. Locations must be checked for spies, food must be checked for poisons, and the day ahead must be checked for trap doors and targets and danger in all forms. His room is smaller than really befits his rank: he, Malik A-Sayf, second in command of the whole Assassin's Order. He could have demanded half the fortress as his own, but then there would have been too much to check each morning.

Anyway, he has few personal possessions and a lifetime's experience of making do with small rooms. It's enough.

The room is safe but the dread remains. As he pulls on his clothing, his experienced hand still fumbling over buttons and ties, he senses it waiting. Another aggravation in a fortress filled with them. Today he has to talk with merchants over taxes and visiting _Rafiks_ over new rumors of war. The Crusaders have fallen back in the last few years, their moral depleted after failing to take Jerusalem, but where they retreat a new enemy comes forward. Talk is ripe of a fur-clad army sweeping in from the East, burning whole cities to the ground. They are still far away—but getting closer.

Malik must plan for this. He must also keep track of Brotherhood recruitment and the training of novices. He must practice his own fighting, two daily hours of combat to ensure his skills stay sharp as his sword. At some point he must find time to eat. There isn't time for nameless qualms and he'd like to ignore this one.

But he is thirty-seven, and an experienced fighter; he was once _Dai_ of all Jerusalem and still maintains the title; he can kill a man as smoothly with one arm as with two. He knows to listen to his instincts.

There's a mirror mounted to the wall, and once dressed Malik studies his reflection. He's changed little in the years since Altair's ascension. Oh, perhaps his beard is a bit thicker, perhaps he's lost some weight. Sometimes he's still startled by the sight of his robes of office, the flare of black against the backs of his boots, the traditional white costume hidden under the extra layer of authority. And sometimes he does feel off-balance, his body weighted wrong against the world. When half-asleep he's liable to stumble.

He lets his eyes drift to the pinned sleeve. At first he'd refused to look, to acknowledge the injury: to glimpse his naked self while bathing was vile. But over time he's adapted, because if Malik knows nothing else, he knows how to adapt. Now he reaches with the arm that's still his to touch the stump through the cloth. His fingers feel out the stitching cut through heavy scars. There are some pinpricks when he presses hard, but no real pain.

Eyes and mind a careful blank, Malik presses harder. Still it doesn't hurt.

He wishes it would.

But he is much too busy this morning for self-reflection. Off he goes, and the Order swallows him: this teeming beast of a Brotherhood, swollen with the weight of its disjointed parts, always days away from utter ruin. Good in some ways. Malik learned long ago how helpful it is to keep busy. But exhausting as well. Much had been neglected in the final few years of Al Mualim's rule, the foundations rotting beneath the gleaming frame. They hadn't realized the full breadth of the damage then. Though it's been over a decade since the Old Man's death, they are still scrambling to shore up the walls.

Malik hurries through his day and the dread hurries after. Such an annoyance, and for no reason. Last night he hadn't even dreamed.

It finally catches him as he stands with his elbows resting on the edge of the training ring in the main courtyard, watching older novices work. How long since it was him dodging blows inside? The faces have changed but the sight is the same. Except that there's only ever one shadow by his side. It startles him, when he thinks of it, Kadar's death. That the world could end and then continue on as if it hadn't—that Malik could pry himself out of bed with his duty in mind, as if any of it still mattered—

He tries to tell himself the Brotherhood needs him, but it doesn't really. It was born before him and will outlast him when he dies. For thirteen years he's tried to be an older brother to a concept, to a ghost. And it leaves him scraped hollow, because no one's ever noticed.

"Come on, come on! Really _lift_ your arms." Rauf looks the same himself, still buried under his trainer's mask. There are lines around his eyes, signals of stress or age, but his voice is loud as ever. The fear of many a novice, Malik muses, and smiles.

Officially he is here to observe novices go through their paces. Unofficially, it's nice to have the chance to talk with a childhood friend.

Rauf leans against the barrier from inside the ring. "They look good, eh?" he says. "Nothing like they were when they started. I beat some skill into them somehow. –I saw that flinch! What good will it do you in battle? Use your braces, try _defending_ yourself."

"You've done well with them," Malik agrees once Rauf has settled down. "I've always envied how perfectly you fit your place."

"Well, I don't envy you a bit. Second-in-command is too much work, especially when Altair is…" Rauf falters but covers himself quickly, in a voice a touch too loud. "Some of my students are worried about the Mongols. I tell them if they want to wet their beds it should be over the _Templars_ , but they think the rumors are more fun."

Malik straightens off the railing. "I can't blame them. Unsettled peace is almost as bad as declared war. Which reminds me, I must sent out messengers today. I want to meet with our men from the East and figure out just which rumors are true."

"Too busy," says Rauf with a smile.

"Maybe you don't have enough to do."

"What! Did you see what these men looked like when they started? To begin with half of them weren't even men. It's no small task to train a bunch of boys."

"I've been meaning to ask you about that," says Malik. "Anyone here particularly talented?"

"Mm." Rauf considers and cocks his head, looking from novice to novice. "That one," he says finally, pointing at a dark-skinned boy of about sixteen. "Born into the Order, actually. Very cautious but smart about his moves. And the one on his left isn't bad. A little reckless. They'd make a good team. Why? Sending my students off already?"

"Just trying to keep track of who ought to be where. It seemed a lot simpler when we were the novices. There were always assassins wherever they needed to be."

"Fewer novices with the Crusaders pulling out."

"Which is one of the many reasons we need to strengthen our ties with the villages. If they trust us they'll send us their sons."

"So calculating. I could never do your job." Rauf calls to the novices, "Alright, drop your blades. You should be grateful I'm nice. If I were mean I'd have you keep embarrassing yourselves in front of _Dai_ Malik." He waits until the last student has left the ring before glancing sideways at his companion. "Actually, Malik…if you're so busy you probably don't have time to talk, but I wanted to tell you…"

"What is it?"

Rauf sags under his grey cowl. "She has decided she refuses to see me," he says, crestfallen. Malik crinkles his brow.

"Who decided? Dima? Again?"

"Yes, Dima, again. I don't understand women. I don't understand the _concept_."

"I thought things were going well between you two. You certainly visit her enough."

"That's what I thought! We had a fine arrangement. She kept herself for me, and I treated her well. But apparently the others were jealous, plus there were a couple other men who kept lurking around. She said it wouldn't work."

"Have you thought of asking her to marry you?"

Rauf looks perplexed. He lowers his mask to gnaw at a fingernail. "Marry her? But I'd have to talk to her father first, and he's in Jerusalem. Or at least that's where she thinks he is. Altair would never give me permission to go."

Exasperated, Malik says, "Rauf, Dima is a _prostitute_. I think you can ignore societal custom with her."

"It wouldn't be right," Rauf insists. "Besides, the brothel isn't far. Marriage would only complicate things."

"Not being able to see her doesn't complicate things?"

"Oh, you don't understand. You never go to the brothel."

"Tell her you want her to stop working and come live in Masyaf. She wouldn't be the first to marry an assassin and give that life up."

Rauf still looks skeptical. "She marries me and then what? Stands around naked in the back garden? Waits at home for me, darning my tunics? I don't think Dima is that kind of woman."

"Then she's perfect for the Brotherhood," Malik starts to say, but before he can finish a third voice interrupts.

" _Dai_ Malik! There's a message." Raed strides over to them from the direction of the main hall. Although technically still an informer he no longer dresses the part: his guard's robes are cut to the knee and grey, without added decoration, and he's grown out his beard. His pack and short knife have been replaced with hidden daggers and a heavy sword strapped to his back.

Malik nods to see him approach. Raed is a good man, and a loyal one: he insisted on following Malik to Jerusalem after the latter was made _Dai_ , and later returned with him to Masyaf. Not an easy change for a man with a family to bundle along, but Raed never complains. Malik trusts him utterly.

"Safety and peace," Raed says to Rauf, before looking at Malik with troubled brown eyes. Malik frowns. Raed is quiet, as befits a man who once roamed cities, listening in; he doesn't worry easily, at least not in public. "There has been a message," he repeats, and Malik's alarm taps him on the shoulder.

"There are often messages," he says.

"Yes, Lord, but this—"

"Please stop calling me that."

"This message is from Kapısuyu. A messenger hawk flew in with it not an hour ago."

Malik takes the offered paper but doesn't read it right away. Instead his fingers feel out the roughness of the paper, the grains branching out like veins against his palm. From Egypt, then, or near-abouts, judging by the thickness. "Kapısuyu _?_ " he asks. "So far?"

Rauf looks mystified. "You've heard of it?"

"I remember the name from an old scroll of _Dai_ Faraj's." Malik lets his old teacher's name slip quickly from his lips. "It was a port city under the Romans until an earthquake tore it down. It's just a small settlement now. Do we still have assassins stationed there?"

"We do," says Raed, "and one wrote to let us know that _he_ passed through their borders two days ago, riding hard for Al Masyaf. He'll be here within the next months."

"He." Malik remembers, and inhales. Oh. So _that_ is the answer. That is the dread. Of course. They have been preparing for it, him and Altair, they have talked about it when they talk at all, and yet Malik had almost forgotten. His return, after thirteen years of exile. He'll be here soon.

"Abbas," says Malik, and Rauf flinches.

"What? You're letting him return? I thought he was banished."

"He has been banished. It was never meant to be permanent. Altair told him he could return after thirteen years had passed. 'One Prophet and twelve Imams,' he said. 'A holy length of time for any good _Shia_ Muslim."' Malik smiles wryly. "I think he thought he was being funny," he says. "Abbas was in no position to argue."

"Maybe so, but do you think thirteen years out in the wastes will have made him any less, ah." Rauf hesitates. He was friends with Abbas once, and though he sided with Altair in that last, great separation, and though he has never been anything but dutiful, Malik can tell he is reluctant to finish his sentence. "He won't like Altair anymore now than he did then," is what he finally says.

"It's what was decided," says Malik.

"But it seems like a strange decision!"

"At the time Altair wanted his head. But considering the situation it wouldn't have been wise." Malik glances at Raed, standing patiently to the side. If Raed has doubts, he won't admit to them here. He's far too devoted for that.

"I need to tell Altair," Malik says. "No doubt it's slipped his mind as well."

Raed says, "I'll walk with you, Lord."

"Only if you stop calling me _Lord_. For Allah's sake, Raed, how many times did you knock me on my ass in training when we were children?"

A flicker of a smile ghosts the other man's solemn face. "Too many to count. But we aren't children now. And you have become the better fighter by far, _Dai_."

" _Dai_ I'll allow," says Malik grumpily. "Damn it, do you make me feel old. A proper _Dai_ has a white beard down to the ground and knows more wise metaphors than I do words."

"Well, you know a lot of very cutting insults. So you're probably fine." Rauf pats his right shoulder, reaching awkwardly around. It would be easier to touch the left one, but he knows—thinks he knows—better than to try. "Tell our Grandmaster I'm beginning to forget what he looks like. If he doesn't show himself soon it's because he knows my students could beat him in the ring."

Malik forces himself to laugh. Rauf is only joking. He can't know how often, and how seriously, Malik's thought the same thing.

 _Where are you, Altair? Do you even exist? Or have you let_ it _swallow you whole?_

Raed follows him away from the ring and back into the shadow of the fortress, striding along the path as it slopes upwards. Once they are alone he says, " _Dai_ Malik, I agree with Rauf. I don't think it's wise to allow Abbas to return."

"What else could we do? He's served out his punishment. He has the right to return to the Brotherhood."

"Forgive me, but it doesn't sound as though he was much punished. Thirteen years in a quiet village, far out of reach of Templars or Crusaders. How is that punishment?"

"For Abbas it was a brutal one," Malik says, and shakes his head. Driven Abbas, so jealous, so determined…death might have been kinder. "Altair couldn't leave it alone," he adds. "Why do you think he always went in that direction to meet with the _Rafiks?_ Every time there needed to be some Order-wide gathering, he picked some backwater no one's ever visited before."

"For secrecy, I thought. Because for the first years of his rule there were spies in Masyaf."

"There were, but you know Altair is too stubborn to admit he's worried about spies. No, he chose that place because it was near the edge of our borders. Near Abbas."

Raed looks at him. "You know this for fact…?"

"Yes. And don't think Abbas doesn't know. I'm sure he ignored his orders and crept to those meetings every time they happened. Never invited. But never chased away, another message from our Master. 'Look how forgotten you are. The Brotherhood discusses its future while you sit surrounded by ruins, doing nothing. Look how little I fear you, that I'll let you watch us pass you by.'" Malik says grimly, "Don't ever forget that Altair can be cruel."

Raed digests this, eyes flickering. Pulling at his beard he says, "But that only confirms my point. Why let him back? He's sure to be vindictive."

"Maybe thirteen years in the wilderness has shocked him into obedience."

"You know Abbas as well as I. Obedience towards the Grandmaster is not something he understands."

"Yes, well." Malik shrugs. "If he tries an assassination of his own Altair will have his eyes for rings in an instant."

"You truly don't fear him?"

"Not even a little."

"Then why wasn't he executed? He tried to kill the leader of the Assassin's Order. Why let him live at all?"

They're in the main hall, now, at the edge of the stairs. From here Malik can see that there's no one at the Master's desk. He knows where he should check next but doesn't want to do so with Raed along. Let Altair be saved that embarrassment, at least. The whole Order doesn't need to know how warped their leader's become.

"Abbas tried to kill Altair, yes," says Malik, "and if it wasn't for that Piece of Eden being beyond his ability to control he might had succeeded. Not because he was so strong. But because, of all the assassins who were there that day, I'm told almost none of them defended Altair. Certainly no one came to help him take back the Apple."

"I don't understand, Lord."

Malik sighs. "You and I hadn't arrived from Jerusalem yet. But you must remember the murmurs. Burning Al Mualim's corpse? Proclaiming himself Grandmaster?"

"Al Mualim was a traitor. There's no doubt of it."

"But there _was_ doubt, don't you remember? I trust Altair. I would give my life for him. But at the time even I wasn't sure…it sounded so outlandish…and its messenger was so hated."

"No thanks to Abbas stirring up trouble."

"That's just the point. If we'd executed Abbas then, half the Brotherhood would have risen against us. They trusted him more than they trusted this novice-turned-Master who'd probably insulted every one of them at least once. Banishment was as much as we could handle."

Raed still looks perplexed. Malik claps a hand to his shoulder. "I need to go find him, Brother," he says. "Don't worry about Abbas. Between his blind anger and Altair, I know who I'd put my faith in."

"You are a good friend to him," Raed says after a moment. "I hope he realizes it."

Malik might have reacted differently once. But after years of practice he knows how to keep himself calm. "He knows what he thinks he needs to know," he says, with no spark of emotion. "It's all I ever expect."

_-i-_

But Altair is not where Malik had expected, locked away in that fetid dungeon room of his, the air thick with dust and the smoke of tallow candles. He's instead in one of the small rooms set aside for dealings with the local villagers, a well-lit space with plenty of pillows and close to the kitchens, so that tea can be brought in for guests. Altair keeps a chair in there, a heavy oak thing with carvings running down the back that he thinks makes him look important.

It works. Malik pushes the door open a crack and glances in, catching sight of him: the Grandmaster in stern blue-black, the clothing tailored to fit perfectly, sitting with one leg crossed over the other and one hand supporting his head, while the fingers of his other drum restlessly against the chair's arm. Whatever agelines he has make him look stern, not elderly, and he could pass for a man ten years younger. Every so often the light catches his hidden blade in just the right way, the silver glittering.

Altair looks dangerous, and powerful, and very bored. He also isn't alone.

There are two older men in front of him, clearly villagers, sitting cross-legged on the cushions clutching cups of tea. Their _djellabas_ and bushy beards speak to their being typical Masyaf peasantry. Malik's attention is drawn instead to the boy standing behind and to the left of Altair, clothed as a novice but with the bearing of a sultan.

Darim is tall for his age of twelve. Born into the Order, he wears his uniform as a second skin. Malik can't imagine him dressed any other way. Privately he has always thought Darim looked more like his mother: his face is square and his solid arms have none of Altair's lanky elegance. But there is no doubt that they are father and son. Both have the same narrowed eyes, the same pale skin that looks so incongruous in the Levant. And both are wild creatures at their core.

Malik enters the room and says, "Safety and peace," but before the words are fully out of his mouth Altair is on his feet.

"You," he barks, sounding a tad desperate. "Finally. Where were you?"

"Was I expected? I wasn't aware you'd sent for me."

"No one's _sent_ for you, but you ought to have been here." Yes, definitely desperate. Altair waves a hand at the seated men. "These two…" he says, and Malik watches him swallow the word _peasant_ s because after all these years even Altair has figured some things out. "These two have a problem. With each other. Fix it."

Malik blinks. "What?"

"They came to Father for advice," Darim supplies. "Hello, Uncle."

"Hello. So if they came to you for advice," he asks Altair sweetly as can be, "then why am I the one who needs to give it? Out of wisdom, Grandmaster?"

Altair growls, "Out of time. All day listening to these— _people_ —complain. I have other things to do!"

"And I am just so burdened with free time."

"It's your own fault," says one of the peasants. "The assassins are the ones who told everyone to come here if something happens. This jackass's son ran off with my daughter. Cost me face in front of the whole village. But if I settled it the normal way you'd haul me in for murder."

The other man glares. "Your daughter bewitched my son. Blame yourself for raising a witch!"

"My daughter was plenty meek before your son got ahold of her. Your family has always been trouble. Not a one of you ever goes to mosque, I've seen it!"

"We've lived here longer than you. Go back to Damascus, and take your harlot daughter with you."

"No _Mahr_. No one asked for my permission. And now her bridehead's gone. Worthless! You owe me your whole flock for what that cur cost me."

" _Mahr_ is for her to use, not for you," says Darim, but is roundly ignored.

"And who taught her to give it up before a marriage contract was signed?"

"Steal from me and then insult me? Fuck the bitch who brought you to life!"

Under the shouting's current, Altair says, "They have been doing this for an hour."

Malik shrugs. "Of course they have. Honor's at stake."

"So let them kill each other! They'd have their honor back and I'd have some peace."

"If it were that simple they wouldn't be here. It's usually someone innocent who suffers when a blood feud gets started, you know that." Malik thinks for a moment, then raises his voice. "This is what you'll do," he says sternly. Instantly the bickering men fall silent. To the man whose son started the problem, he says, "You'll give him your—"

"I already tried it," says Altair. "Then they started arguing about how much livestock is worth a missing virgin daughter."

"I'm not finished. You've another son, yes? And you another daughter?" At the nods, Malik says, "Have them marry, assuming they're of age."

"They are," says the father of daughters, "but how does it help me to lose another girl to him?"

"He'll pay you for both marriages. You won't have lost anything."

The father of sons protests, "If I pay him for his first girl it'll look like I condone the marriage! Like I don't care that my son didn't bother to ask me first. They'll laugh me out of the village."

"You're not condoning anything. You're not paying for that marriage, you're paying quite a lot for the second, because it's such a good match. Or at least that's what you can tell people. You've admitted no wrongdoing, and _you've_ gotten your brideprice." With a glance at Darim, Malik adds, "Though of course the _Mahr_ will go to the daughter in question, unless she decides otherwise herself."

"Of course," both men mutter, but no one is fooled. Not all customs are easily changed, not even by assassins.

With the argument ended the two men are quick to leave, with wide-eyed _salaams_ and not-so-stealthy glances at the various weapons the three assassins wear. Even Masyaf villagers, used to the Order, are made nervous in its depths. It couldn't have been any different under Al Mualim. Altair is a fair ruler, if not always kind, and the Old Man could be a black-clad terror.

Visions of the past remind Malik why he's come. "I need to talk to you," he tells Altair. "We've received word that Abbas is on his way back."

Altair sits back in his chair, reaching as he does so to pull the front of his cowl low over his eyes. Matched with the black cloak, the cowl is even more noticeably an affront than it used to be. But the Son of None will never give up its protection. Malik has long since stopped hoping otherwise.

"Let him come back," the Grandmaster says. "His banishment is rescinded. Let him return to being a superstitious fool at the gate."

"Some of the others are concerned. Rauf, Raed…"

"What threat is Abbas? Thirteen years have dulled whatever sway he had within the Order. He doesn't have the skills to defeat me directly, nor the courage to betray us outright. And he doesn't have it."

Malik frowns. "It?"

Altair meets his gaze, steady. "The Apple."

"You would never use that thing in battle. That was one of the first things we agreed on."

"Nevertheless."

"I mean it, Altair! Bad enough you pry at its secrets like an opium addict haunting the docks. If you ever use it against someone else, _any_ one else, you can find another jester to play at second in command. I'd rather beg for coins in Acre than watch you turn yourself into a demon."

Altair murmurs, "You are so frightened of it. Even you. Its power is extraordinary."

"Which is why I fear it. Which is why you should as well! We don't know a damn thing about that Piece of Eden. How did Al Mualim learn of it? Why was it in Solomon's Temple? What _is_ it? Such a thing should be impossible, yet here you are, offering it your strength year after year. Waiting for it to consume you."

"Why should it consume me? Why is it so hard for you to consider that I might be stronger than some wizard's forgotten toy?" Altair grins darkly, with no mirth. "You don't know what it offers the Order, Malik. You're too wary sometimes."

The argument is so well-worn the sentences themselves feel threadbare. Endlessly the Apple rises between them and nothing is ever resolved. Malik still wants to beat the other man senseless. How can the idiot be so blind?

On cue the pain returns, oft-visitor that it is, sharp and prickling through the discolored flesh. Malik winces and rubs at the stump through the sleeve. Fingers that don't exist tingle, a wrist he doesn't have burns ceaselessly. Altair notices, it's obvious from the way he stiffens up, but still the connection isn't made.

Oh, the idiot. They've fought this battle a thousand times, usually until they're both hoarse from shouting and someone has driven his fist through the nearest door, but Altair doesn't realize. "How do you know what the Apple can do?" he always asks, and never thinks to take Malik's grimace of pain as an answer.

( _Not you, not you, not you._ The King of Swords hears the voice in his sleep sometimes. An old song born on a chilly breeze.)

"You promised me you wouldn't use it in battle," he says. "If you break that promise—"

"I won't," Altair interrupts, and frowns at Malik's missing arm.

Then Darim says, "Excuse me, Uncle." Malik falters, having all but forgotten Altair's son was there. "Who is Abbas?"

"A coward," says Altair. "An assassin in nothing but name."

"Oh. Is he dangerous?"

"Hardly."

"Well," Malik considers, though he'd given Raed the same answer an hour ago, "he has some skill. But his piety and his jealousy ruin his talent."

"Why was he exiled? You've never mentioned him before, Father."

"If he was important I would have mentioned him." Altair's tone turns brusque. "It's impossible to escape your questions. You should work your sword arm as much as you do your tongue." Darim scowls, but if Altair sees or cares he gives no sign. "Go, train in the courtyard. I'm done coddling villagers for the day, there's nothing else for you to watch here."

"But, Father, aren't you coming? You said you'd practice with me…"

"Go," says Altair again, sharper. "I'll come later."

Darim deepens his scowl. "Safety and peace, Uncle," he mutters, and stalks out of the room. Malik watches him go, recognizing the _want_ in the boy, the longing of a son for his father.

Only Altair could be so clumsy with his own family.

"You're harsh with him."

"How else should I be? He's my first born. Every enemy I've ever made will want his head, even if he doesn't end up the Brotherhood leader."

"He's a fine fighter."

"He's a reckless one."

"Eager to prove himself to his father. Sounds familiar, actually."

"He knows what's important," Altair allows, with a sliver of pride. Malik busies his eyes on a different corner of the room, so he doesn't have to see the satisfied glow. The Son of None has two sons of his own. And a wife. A whole loyal Order at his command. His detractors silenced by his adept leadership. A second in command who is ever devoted, ever pliant, ever willing to pretend he knows how to forgive. Yes, the maligned orphan Altair has made himself a king's bounty in Masyaf.

Malik has an empty grave, and voices in his dreams.

"You'll be there when Abbas arrives," says Altair.

"Of course."

"We'll have to find him a suitable post. Perhaps by the stables. He can help shovel animal shit. It'd be the most useful thing he ever did."

"Careful," warns Malik, grinning. "You'll make him mad."

"The world would be meaningless without you there to call me novice, or him to call me infidel."

"Now that you mention it," Malik says slowly, weighing the words, "I ought to warn you. The few years before his banishment it wasn't—wasn't an issue—but I should say…"

Altair shifts on his chair. "What?"

"Abbas knew. He figured it out towards the end."

"Knew what?" Now Altair stands again, all agitated energy like the static charge before a storm, cracking his knuckles for the excuse to move his hands. Malik watches him flex his left wrist, the tip of his hidden blade popping in and out of its brace. The _Dai_ hasn't worn one since he lost his arm and has never worn the real thing, but he remembers how its weight was a comfort, in some sick way.

"What did Abbas figure out?" Altair asks, though he doesn't need to be told. But he will make Malik say it, because he enjoys seeing Malik's discomfort.

Ah, but that is being uncharitable, or so the _Dai_ supposes. He reasons now as he reasons always that the Son of None is simply most at ease in tense situations. It's what he's used to: the taunts before the carnage. So Malik gives in. Sometimes it seems he has spent a lifetime giving in. Altair is that vulnerable, though only one of them has the power of knowing it. Losing frightens him.

"Abbas," says Malik, "found out that we were-…"

He is distracted by a sudden commotion in the hall, raised voices and alarm. Then Raed shoves open the door. "There's been an attack," he says in a rush. "A few hours away. There are survivors here begging for aid."

All other conversation is forgotten as Altair is called into battle once again. He strides from the room, Malik at his right shoulder, Raed a step behind, already caressing the hilt of his sword. "Crusaders or Templars? Or slavers?" At a group of passing journeymen who start to see their Master and drop into messy bows, he barks, "Round up some guardsmen. I want patrols in the area increased." He marches on without waiting for acknowledgment, robes billowing. Raed hurries to keep up.

"The attackers wore the cross," he says, "so they weren't slavers. It's not a village we protect, though. It couldn't have put up much of a defense."

Malik says, "It must have been a Crusader patrol. What would Templars have to gain from attacking a farming village?"

Raed looks confused. The difference between Crusader soldier and Templar Knight isn't easy for all assassins to grasp. Especially when most of the Order knows only what rumor's told them of the Pieces of Eden. Templars are the enemy and they dress as Christian soldiers: that is what the Brotherhood understands. At least, that is what they understood before Al Mualim bewitched Masyaf.

"We haven't had trouble with Crusaders for months," Raed says. "They're leaving, the Templars aren't."

"Templars don't usually sack villages for the sake of bloodlust. They have loftier goals. Richard's army was huge and disconnected. We'll be mopping up his dirt long after he's back in England."

They've reached a side door. Altair shoves it open and steps out into the piercing daylight. "How many survivors?"

"Three. All men."

"And the others?"

Raed hesitates. "Still there."

They are back in the front courtyard. The stables are down at the bottom of the village, and Malik wonders if Altair means to run the whole way, but instead the Grandmaster stops short and whistles hard. "Two horses," he orders of the first man to answer his call. "I want them saddled and waiting for me at the front gate. And I want another dozen men already riding by the time I get there."

If forced to at the point of torture, Malik might admit he's mildly impressed.

Altair asks for the village's location and then tells Raed to stay behind. "With the survivors. Don't let them panic in the middle of Masyaf."

"Yes, Master."

In the flurry of activity Malik half-forgets that villages being attacked isn't nearly so common under Altair's rule as it was under Al Mualim's. The horses are saddled just past the village walls; the stablemaster hesitates when he sees the _Dai_ , and minces forward with unease all over his face. Malik saves him humiliation and also a bruise or two by mounting his horse before the man can offer to help.

Altair certainly doesn't offer, only watches as Malik grips the front of the saddle with his hand, works his left foot into the stirrup and swings his right leg over. It'd be easier with a mounting block, but he'll sprain his leg pushing upwards before he asks for one. There's a moment where he sways a little to the side (center of balance off again, damn it, how many years until he is _used_ to this?) but in the end he is strong enough to pull himself upright. The horse whickers as he settles himself. Altair looks bizarrely pleased.

Then the two of them are riding hard, as they used to do so often, leaving passerby to scurry aside or else be trampled, shouting to be heard over the wind. Perhaps the best aspect of Altair's rule is that he never hesitates to join his men. No king rotting behind thick walls is this Grandmaster. He would disband the Order and fight everyone himself if he could.

"I offered all the villages from here to Damascus protection! They should have accepted. Three trained assassins would have been enough to stop a bunch of drunken soldiers."

"You can't force people, Altair. The war is ending and some of these towns are so remote. Probably the first suspicious person they'd ever seen was you."

Altair raises his head to glower, face framed by his cowl. "They should have listened."

"They couldn't have known."

"You are always so _reasonable_." He spits it like a curse but only to hide a grudging respect. Malik shakes his head.

"Not always," he says. "Not with you."

Altair's face darkens, but Malik doesn't care. He leans over his horse and spurs the beast on.

_-i-_

It is, as feared, a massacre.

What had been a busy, if small, village is now a jumble of smoking rubble and bloated bodies. Vultures circle overhead, scared off by the assassins, waiting for chances to land. The livestock has all been scattered or stolen and many of the trees are broken-limbed. The high grasses of the valley are trampled flat.

Assassins pick through the wreckage in uneasy silence. Upon Altair and Malik's arrival a journeyman comes forward with the report: no survivors. Altair points his horse down the main road and trots slowly through, but Malik, feeling useless at the sight of another village lost to fear and frenzy, decides to dismount. Getting off the horse is easier than getting on, and with other assassins watching he makes sure not to slip.

Nestled between a pair of blackened trees is a cottage still half-standing. The back has fallen into itself and the roof's thatch is ablaze, but the front end is intact. "Get some water from the river before it spreads," he tells the journeyman, and the assassin goes to do so, but with no sense of urgency. There's nothing left here to save.

Malik walks towards the burning cottage, as good a destination as any other. He keeps one eye on it and one on the ground, stepping carefully around the corpses. Old men, women in thick shawls, even a shepherd's dog with its throat cut. No soldiers here. The bodies lie sprawled in doorways, or in pieces amongst the smoldering detritus, limbs jutting out at vicious angles with claw marks from the buzzards. There are hoof prints in the dirt, signs of people having been run down.

"The war is ending," he says to himself, almost idly. "What was the point?"

He can imagine the chaos. Soldiers drunk and bitter, lied to and forgotten by their kings and priests, leaving their Holy Land in the hands of the enemy. Oh, yes, Malik can imagine the chaos such men could have caused. Here the man beheaded, and here the child trampled, and here—and here—

Malik turns on his heel in a frenzy. He has seen many villages overrun. He has seen battlefields, from a distance and up close, during and after. The stench of rotting flesh, the feel of grease on his lips. He's found lost Crusader men, separated from their regiments, wandered off their trails, dead of thirst in the desert. Skeletal creatures parched to the bone, no fluid left, not even in the eye sockets. Death isn't a shock for Malik. It is an _indignity_.

More bodies to his left. More buzzards, and they don't lift off when he walks past. He feels their black, beady eyes following him with a full scavenger's sated curiosity. "How many survivors reached Al Masyaf?" he asks the air, and remembers that Raed had said three.

And the others? Perhaps one or two more, out in the wastes, lost and scared? Malik can't see the horizon through the smoke on the air. It pulls tricks on him, gusting into shapes he can almost recognize.

He is almost at the cottage now, lost in his dark thoughts, his robes feeling heavy with the heat from the fire. In the background is Altair, ordering assassins to organize a search for the Crusaders. Malik lifts his eyes to the sight of his Grandmaster ( _his_ , presumption that it is) sitting majestic on his mount. Altair the humbled, Altair the redeemed.

Look at all he has been given. Soon Darim will be old enough to ride out with his father on such missions, to attend meetings in Altair's place. Malik has already been asked to give the boy lessons on proper decorum for such a role, and his younger brother Sef afterwards. Altair is planning for the future.

Malik, angry now, buries his nose in his sleeve to ward off the creeping smoke. Altair the insatiable! This is not a world that makes allowances, for anyone. But the man demands so much. The man is _given_ so much, by Malik most of all. Malik, who stands staring into the fire as if from it he will find two small boys, scurrying from the ash.

(But where is the younger brother? Lost in the desert, where Malik has left him for good.)

Altair calls, "Malik, come over here," but he pretends he hasn't heard. He'd much prefer to watch the flames, because in the shadows he sees Kadar. He can even hear him crying out…

Malik jolts to awareness. It's a woman's crying he's hearing, high-pitched and half-smothered, from somewhere within the cottage. Instinct propels him to shrug out of his _Dai's_ robes, leaving him only in white for the first time in many years. Lightness settles on his limbs, a luring freedom. The journeyman comes up behind him with a bucket of water, says, "The Master is asking for you, Lord," but Malik whirls on him and yanks the bucket from his hands.

"You said there were no survivors," he snaps.

The journeyman looks with bewilderment at the black robe puddled on the ground. "Lord, why are you…?" Then Malik splashes the water not over the cottage but over himself, drenching himself fully, robes gone almost transparent across his chest. "Wait," gasps the other assassin as he drops the bucket and darts forward, "Wait, _Dai_ Malik! The roof is going to cave in!"

It's true, it is, and the fire is a wall of heat that plucks the air from his lungs. But the front of the hut is still standing, and the woman must be there if she still lives. Her wail pushes him inside, and he blocks his face with his arm for protection. The journeyman yells his name again, and then all outside sounds are lost to the crackle of flame.

Malik pulls his cowl up and takes a shallow breath, careful with each crunching step not to nudge a fresh ember. Burning bundles of thatch tumble down around him, searing his shoulders, but the walls haven't yet caught, and besides a fallen beam the front room is largely intact. Not for long, but this reprieve is enough. He squints in the murk, unwilling to gulp down a lungful of smoke by opening his mouth to call out. With eyes near useless in the haze he trusts his ears to lead.

The crying is coming from beyond the beam, which has cut the room neatly in two and is burning swiftly. It will spark the walls soon. One end is wedged against the wall, forming a fiery arch Malik starts to duck under, to get a burst of sparks in his face as a reward.

With a snarl that ends in a cough he yanks out his broadsword and swings it down in a blunt chop, using it more like an axe to cut through the beam. The heat against his hand stings something hellish but the wood is soft with ash by now, and crumbles at the blow. Malik takes a wide step over, coughing again, or hacking really, with a sharp pinch deep in his chest.

He scans what he can see of the little room left and catches sight of her, huddled in the corner. She's wrapped the trailing edge of her green _khimar_ not over her face but across her drawn-up knees, and Malik feels an Altair-like flash of irritation at the stupidity of panicked people. She sees him and stops mid-cry, face shiny with sweat, green eyes bright with fear. He cuts through the narrow space to kneel at her side, puts his hand on her shoulder to pull her up, dropping his sword at his feet to do so.

She jerks herself out of his grasp with a grunt that sounds torn from the depths of her thin frame, keeping one shoulder turned and raised in modest defense. The movement is what draws Malik's attention to the blood: the _khimar_ is stained brown where it clings to her neck and the top of her chest. When she gasps a fresh red spurt blossoms against the cloth. She turns her body away when Malik tries to look closer, and with a wince he lets her.

The rattle in her breathing and the whiteness of her lips tells him there's nothing he can do.

But to burn alive is a worse fate than this woman deserves. "Let me take you from here," he says to her. She looks over her raised shoulder at him, wildly, with her cheeks flushed red.

"You," she says. Her voice is rough with smoke and older than her face. "Ahh, ahhss."

"Yes, I'm an assassin. I'm sorry, we weren't here to save this place. Come, _Sayyideti_ , there isn't time. Choose an easier death than this."

" _You_. You, yes. Take." But when Malik pulls at her shoulder she struggles a second time. "No," she says, panting with the effort of speaking, and he thinks she's lost her mind from lack of air. Then she lowers her shoulder and turns to face him fully. With short, pained movements she draws her _khimar_ up, off her knees.

"What are you," says Malik, and then he sees, and is struck silent. Nestled against her stomach, whining now that the nebulous safety of the scarf has been pulled aside and the smoke allowed in, is a child maybe three months old. His dying mother cradles him awkwardly, looking from him to Malik and back. Altair would envy her the fierceness in her eyes.

"You," she says again. "Take."

Malik leans over them both. The child is whining louder now, using lungs that sound healthy. His face and waving hands are plump. He's wearing a little tunic-shirt that, if frayed at the edges, is spotlessly clean.

" _Take_ ," insists the woman. She doesn't have the strength to hold her child out to him, but she twitches her shoulders impatiently. "Ass'in," she says, lowering her gaze to the sword on the ground, the knives tucked into his belt. "You can, _nnh_ …keep him safe."

"I understand. Yes." Malik nods, his voice soft. "Your son can be raised within the Brotherhood. He'll want for nothing there, I promise you—"

But she isn't satisfied. " _No_ ," she says, shaking her head with surprising force. Malik coughs again, impatient for his own sake as much as hers. "No orphan. Please. _You_ take him. Raised by…an ass'in. Always be safe."

For a brief, blissful second it doesn't make sense and he thinks pain has cost the woman her senses. Then he realizes, and almost loses his balance in lurching horror. The infant screws up his face, threatening to scream.

"No," Malik tells her, louder than he'd meant to, "No, I can't. I'm sorry. It isn't possible. We have many orphans who've never known anything but the Brotherhood. He won't be alone, he'll be fed and clothed and educated with all the rest. He…"

"Assassin," says the woman clearly, as if it were his name. "My son…is not an orphan."

"Where is his father?" She shakes her head. "His uncles? Cousins? Older siblings? Is there none of his family left?" Malik demands with growing anxiety. Again and again she shakes her head. "I cannot raise your son myself. If you want me to find a family to place him with—"

"No! You are an assassin. And you came."

"So did other assassins, I didn't come alone."

"Came here." She says firmly, "Caring. And brave." Malik wants to scream.

"Tell me where your parents are, where your husband's parents are. Or an uncle, a friend… _Sayyideti_ , there must be someone else." But she won't answer.

Rationally he can understand her fear of leaving behind an orphaned child, even a son. Cast him off on some overburdened uncle's household, or worse, the household of a stranger, and her son will never be welcomed. They might raise him resentfully, raise him as little more than an indentured servant; they might sell him as a slave or throw him into a city orphanage, to be met with abuse and eventual military conscription. They might raise him with compassion, and still he might starve or be murdered by bandits or left dead of cholera before the age of two. Where people are poor, bloodlines are everything. An orphan is an unwanted mouth.

But Malik cannot give the woman what she wants. He is not a father.

"Please," says the woman, and now she really is having trouble with the smoke. The conflagration is creeping closer, rising higher. The roof creaks in warning. "Safe with you. He will be good."

"There are other assassins, assassins who have time for children."

"You came."

"Just because I was closest!" _Lie to her,_ Malik orders himself, _lie to her and leave or else you'll die at her side._ But he can't. She is dying, and she is desperate, and it's her family she wants to save.

And Malik is an orphan. Even at ten he knew that survival was too great an effort without somebody there to call him by name.

"I can't," he whispers. "Don't ask me to promise this."

"Strong ass'in. A good father." With terrible kindness she strokes the child's face, but her eyes stay on his, entreating.

Malik shouts, "How can you assume that?" and jabs his hand at his left side's folded sleeve. "I can't protect him. I'll fail again. _Altair_ is the one who takes and takes. Everything I have is lost."

(Altair with his children and lonely Malik with his tiny room, would it be so bad? To try again? The hope and fear, the assurances, _would it be so bad a second time_?)

The woman softens, with a sigh that takes her burdens away. She slumps low against the wall and Malik thinks she's died and left their fight unfinished, but suddenly she rallies, grabbing for his arm, the baby still nestled in her lap. "Tah," she says with fresh urgency, "Taahh…"

Feeling separate from it all (from his body, his history, the wants he'd ignored so well he'd never known they were there) Malik pulls her closer, to let her hiss against his ear. He is reeling too fast to do otherwise. "Tahhh," she tries. He holds her upright and looks at the child, numb.

_Kadar. Will you forgive me?_

Finally, with a last gush of vigor and blood, the woman whispers. Malik listens, nods, says nothing. There isn't a point. Her eyes hover half-closed and she's dead before he's moved away. Gently he separates the now-squalling infant from her lap, using the whole of his arm to support the tiny body, holding it close to his chest. How long it's been since child Malik held his newborn brother with both hands!

Malik rises to his feet, seeing his sword but having no way to pick it up, unless he was to drop the infant into the inferno. Already the sacrifices start. It surprises him how easy they are to make for a child that isn't of his blood. He steps past the beam, through the sweltering heat, lungs demanding oxygen that isn't there, mind graying at the edges. Damn fire and war, damn the heat of the sun. Malik trudges on, hoping the squalling baby won't move too much because he won't be able to catch him, trusting that the door is near.

What looks like a sheet of dancing fire, solid heat and light, swallows the way out. Malik coughs, and then can't stop coughing. The baby's crying is shriller now, thin and strained and leeched with terror. Malik holds the small face against his chest to protect it and buries his own face into the cowl, and then, because he has faced down pain before, because he so loathes fire, the King of Swords jumps through.

All ablaze, embers popping in his ears, his exposed hand singed and he is rife with silent cursing—

And then the whole sweet, clear world is around him, and the fire is behind.

Malik lands hard on his knees, careful to mind the infant, and coughs so hard he nearly retches. He spits, bringing it up from the pits of his lungs, and it comes out soot-dark and solid. His throat feels flayed open and his hand stings; he has no doubt it will soon blister. He and the child are both filthy and stink of smoke. There are burn marks on his clothing, as well ass telltale patches on his legs and face that pulse with pain.

But there are also alarmed assassins crowding round so he forces himself back to his aching feet. A laugh bubbles behind his lips, but Malik is generally a serious sort, and recognizes hysteria when he feels it. So he only thins his lips, and gathers back his breath.

Someone very close behind him bellows his name and turns him on his feet. Malik blinks at Altair, who is livid enough to smack him across the face, not hard. Malik allows this, because, well. He recognizes hysteria.

His mind is still a little hazy, and the contact between them so rare…he forgets for a moment that there's a crowd as he tilts his face and smiles into Altair's palm. The startled Grandmaster allows it for a second before drawing back. By then Malik's recovered himself.

"Do that again," he says quite cheerfully, "and I shall put acid in your drinking water."

"You are not the one who should be making threats right now." Altair is too flustered to notice the baby. "What the devil were you thinking, going in there? What if the roof had collapsed?"

"To borrow from your logic, it hasn't yet."

"The second most powerful man in the entire Brotherhood, and you play at suicide."

"The _most_ powerful man in the Brotherhood, and your voice could shatter glass. Stop shrieking."

"I am not shrieking!"

The baby, however, stunned into momentary silence, decides the situation calls for _someone_ to shriek. So he does. The journeymen take a step back as one mass. Malik rolls his eyes.

Altair needs another second. "If I had been the one to do that you would have yelled me into my grave. If I am the Master here you ought listen to my, to my…"

"To your?"

"Is that a baby?"

Malik adjusts his grip on the child. God, he's so small. Kadar was a fussy baby, and when he cried only incessant rocking would calm him. Malik sways back and forth, listening to the infant sniffle.

"Malik." Altair is frowning now. "You found it inside the hut?"

"Yes. His mother was calling."

"We were told there were no survivors." Altair turns his frown on the other assassins, who suddenly all have things to do on the other end of the village. The crowd is gone quickly, which Malik half-suspects was the point. "Where is the mother?"

"Dead. She was badly hurt."

"Any surviving family?"

Malik shakes his head, wincing as his hand stings. He says carefully, "Altair, I want to take him with us. To raise him."

Altair hesitates only a moment. "It would make sense. I'll have someone find a space for him in the novices' quarters when he's older—"

"That's not what I meant." Malik pauses too, testing the words, testing the drop. Another step and he will fall. But how far is the plunge this time? "I want to raise him," he says, and there is freedom in knowing there is no longer a choice. "On my own. As my son."

Altair is staring. Their eyes lock. For a minute no one speaks.

"You wanted a child?" asks the older man at last. "You never told me that."

"Is it so strange? Look at your household."

"I didn't say it was strange." He sounds sullen now, no mistake. "I said you never told me."

"It wasn't something I thought of very often. But I…to have someone to care for…"

"Ah, I see. And you haven't had that already."

Malik sharpens his voice, though his throat feels shredded from the inside. "Altair, enough. No more of that here."

"Someone to _care_ for. Of course. A thirteen year drought is a long one." He mutters, "Your forgiveness is a mirage."

"He is a _child_ , you brainless novice. I'm telling you I've wanted a son, someone to raise. Or are you the only man allowed to pass on his name?"

"I never said that."

"And if we are discussing who has cared for whom lately, O Grandmaster, may I remind you of your _wife_."

"I thought we weren't having the argument here. But if we were I'd say that you gave me your blessing to marry."

"Because I never wanted to be your wife!" Malik says it too loudly and the baby whimpers. Quickly he tempers his voice. "You're right, though, we aren't fighting over that now. I've decided to raise this child as my own. I gave you my blessing once. I'd like yours now. But either way he'll carry my name."

Altair picks at the scar on his lip. He's silent for so long Malik is about to walk away in disgust. Then he scowls at his boots and says, "If you want my blessing you have it."

The _Dai_ dips his head. "…Thank you."

"But are you sure? That baby is an orphan, Malik, not of your bloodline."

"I've never thought that mattered much."

"Nor have I, but…"

"He is an abandoned orphan, yes. And that is more important than bloodlines."

"You were orphaned young. You survived. It didn't hurt either of us to be raised in the Order, without parents."

"That's arguable, my friend. And it's not what I want for him. You had Al Mualim, at least, and I had my brother. This little one needs someone too. And I did promise."

Altair turns his head at the mention of the dead. "If you're sure, then I'll recognize him as your son. But you're giving him a heavy title. It isn't a safe life."

"Yes," says Malik. "I…" It drains him to admit it, but he must. "I'm afraid of that. I could let it all be ruined."

Often Malik A-Sayf looks at his supposedly healed relationship with Altair, the bickering and innuendo and half-intentional insults, the damage they cause each other simply by being in the same room, and wonders why he bothers. Why either of them bother. Who is Altair Ibn La'Ahad that he should be worth such grief? Just a man whose abilities border on godlike, but whose understanding of humanity is equally removed. Half the time they make each other miserable. What is any of this _worth_?

And then Altair looks at him as he does now, with hesitant warmth as though ashamed of his own kindness, and offers him courage.

"You, afraid? You are the strongest man I know. What do you have to be afraid of? If you say you'll raise that baby then I look forward to watching him slashing people with words as his father does. It'll be amusing."

"I live to amuse you."

"You'll need to find a wet nurse, obviously. There's bound to be someone in Masyaf. And I'm moving your room as far away from mine as possible. I'm sure he'll cry all night long with you as a father."

"Says the man who was scared to hold his own sons when they were born."

"I wasn't. Who told you I was?"

"A good assassin never admits his sources, novice."

"You are a demon, not an assassin. Stop calling me novice."

"Stop acting like one and I will." Malik takes a breath. "I am sorry," he says.

Instantly Altair is on guard. "For what?" he asks, suspicious.

"That you think my forgiveness is a mirage." He smiles faintly at the baby, who's lying watchful in his arm. "Perhaps it has been, sometimes. But that was never my intent."

A muscle pulses in Altair's jaw. He starts to say something but freezes, eyes darting towards some specter at his shoulder. He is more and more distracted lately, and Malik considers pointing it out. Altair's hard whistle cuts him off. A horse comes trotting along, and Altair pulls himself upon its back before it's come to a full stop. Only when the man is sitting high above Malik does he square his shoulders, the stern lord in full command. "Be quiet," he orders. "Never apologize to me again."

Malik raises an eyebrow. "As you wish."

"I do."

"Here, before you ride off, hold him for a moment so I can get on my own horse." Altair looks askance at him. Malik clucks his tongue. "It's a baby, Altair, not a rabid dog." He holds the child up, until the other man has no choice but to take him.

"…He's calm," the Grandmaster allows after a long, doubtful look. The infant looks back at him, fretful but quiet under his shock of black hair. "Most children would be in hysterics."

Malik muses, "The Son of None holding a baby. The world should end soon." He moves away, but stops when Altair calls his name.

"What is his name, then? What will you call him?"

Malik glances over his shoulder at the two of them, shrouded in the smoke from the still-burning cottage. The roof has fallen in, finally, but the rubble will smolder for hours yet. And no one will return to clean away the debris.

But at least a name can be saved.

"Tazim," he says. "Tazim Ibn Malik." Then he leaves his son in Altair's arms and goes to find his horse.


	3. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Literal years later and I finally notice I gave Darim two different ages, because numbers are a mark of Satan and confuse me. I've fixed it here, ffdotnet makes it too much of a process so I haven't bothered, but just know if you see it wrong elsewhere as you very well might that he's supposed to be 12 from this point on. Time's all an illusion, anyhow...

**_Ghouls and Stories_ **

Altair hears it calling him from across the fortress.

He moves swift as desert winds through the narrow passageways, headed not for his desk in the main hall where all might see him work, but for the secret dungeon room where no one will see a thing. It feels more his than the desk and hall: those things were Al Mualim's first, and they will always bear his scent.

It's a silly thing for men to have nightmares, because what is the point in fearing what isn't real? But occasionally even Altair has them, and when he does he is always standing in front of that desk, back straight 'til it hurts, as Al Mualim turns from the grand window to look at him with his piercing gaze. Master Al Mualim, who knows all secrets. He shakes his head, disappointed, and he says to Altair, "You've made a mistake. I never betrayed you. You've been wrong in everything you've done."

But Altair rarely has nightmares.

When he reaches the room he latches the door shut and drops his black robes to the floor. They're an important symbol of his office, he'd never walk out in public without them, but they're also heavy, and through a strange quirk of design this room would swelter in a blizzard.

He ignores the table laden with scrolls, turning instead to the ones tacked to the walls. His eyes fall on the nearest one, the one least scrawled over, and after a moment's consideration he pulls it free and spreads it out over the floor. Inexpertly sketched out in the middle is a version of the hidden blade, with small differences. He's made notes around it, in Arabic and Latin and even French, but they don't link together yet. This particular hidden blade is still a thing of dreams only.

Altair frowns, staring at it, impatient for it to spring fully-formed from the paper. He runs the Brotherhood and the Brotherhood must stay ahead of their enemies. Al Mualim had been such a traditionalist, had been so against new weapons or even new models of old weapons—

He chases the thoughts away before he can linger too long on his old Master's face. The Apple of Eden calls to him again. Carefully he reaches for a leather pouch hanging off his belt. Its size belies its weight as always, for the thing inside has the weight of God attached.

Altair holds the Apple in his right hand, rubbing the tips of his fingers against its uneven surface. So small, so simple.

Malik has never trusted it, for its powers are beyond what should be possible. But Altair has fought with the thing, thrown all his might against it and come out still sane. It isn't as though he trusts it fully either, but he respects what it can do. He respects whatever man or sorcerer made it, and Altair doesn't lend out his respect often.

The Apple of Eden. Was it what drove Al Mualim mad? Or had the old man been a traitor all along?

Altair sets the orb on the table, where it glows faintly. Then he tends to other matters, answering requests made weeks ago and deadlines long passed, sifting through the clutter. Occasionally he might glance at the orb (fine, say that he does), but he doesn't reach for it, or touch it, or pick it up (because Altair is in control, not some wizard's trinket however useful). He's gotten into the habit of using the Apple only after he's finished other business. Malik says the thing acts alive, ridiculous as it sounds, and that it will consume him. Altair ignores it to prove to the _Dai_ that he can.

Malik misunderstands the artifact, of course. He sees it as a weapon only, when violence is just one of the Apple's many tools. When Altair holds it he is transported—lifted—he finds himself in strange grey country, where voices tell him of the future. Sometimes he is given visions, quick flashes he must piece together if he can. If he focuses he can see his body, standing in the dungeon room, but still the Apple _takes_ him somewhere. Lately it has been harder to ground himself to the real world. He doesn't always bother.

Altair doesn't know how the Apple works, which is admittedly annoying. But it does work. Some mind-clouding poison, he supposes, released when met with the warmth of human touch. Some heating agent, some metal not available in the Levant. And if it knows its own riddles, it won't answer them. Altair can stand in the grey fog and bark endless questions, but not all of them are answered. The voices speaking through the artifact have their own wills.

"A sword that thinks," Malik called it once. "A lump of metal that can keep grudges like a man. How wise is it to trust that?"

But it _does_ work.

If Altair is shown a weapon with braces and buckles, then afterwards he sketches the design and takes it to the blacksmith, and the blacksmith is amazed by the clever invention. If he is shown a way to jump or run or hide, he tries it out in the real world and jumps, runs, hides, better than even he imagined.

Not all the visions are so clear. Sometimes after a session he is left seething with frustration, soaked with bits of knowledge he doesn't know how to use. Metal tubes that use powder to fling tiny stones with great force. Giant armored carts, moving of their own volition, faster than the best-bred stallion. Fire that springs from a small box to swallow everything, even water: Greek fire, it must be, but Altair has asked around and _knows_ the recipe for such a thing has been lost since the fall of Rome.

The Apple knows the past, then, as well as the future. Does it learn? Does it choose who to teach and who to scorn? When Altair holds it, if he wanted, he could stay out of the grey country and instead use it as a weapon here, on his own earth. It tells him so in honeyed tones.

But he has promised Malik.

Not many in the Order know much about the artifact. They know it exists, kept hidden from Templar desires, and perhaps rumors reach the novices of their Grandmaster being invincible, able to read minds and fortunes. But those rumors were woven around Al Mualim as well.

(Altair grits his teeth. _Stop thinking of him_ , he orders himself. The past is tainted. He was too different then.)

He looks down at the table and sees chipped wood all around the orb. Has he been so productive, or merely shoved scrolls aside? Either way the Apple waits patiently. He looks next at the scroll still spread out on the floor, at the hidden blade that doesn't require a finger removed. He's sketched out the brace already, but the inner mechanisms are unclear. How could it possibly work? If he were a traditionalist he would tear the design to pieces, because losing a finger has always been the mark of a Master Assassin.

Altair is no traditionalist, though. And in this world where Templars are generals and kings, he wonders if it is so helpful for assassins to stay as they are. They are meant to work in the dark, but they have always been wielded like an army: conquering lands, building fortresses.

"Fine," he says at last, and picks the Apple up.

The warmth swallows his hand and his arm, swallows him whole in a rush of gold light. He squints against the brightness, his pulse loud in his ears. As ever there is the sensation of pain, or rather, pain missing. A gap where pain ought to be. Then he is out and through and standing on a mass of swirling, chilly grey that soaks through the soles of his boots.

If he thinks hard he can remember that none of this is real, not the clouds nor the chill. He is still sitting at the table, bent over the artifact, eyes glazed and breath slow.

But there is also this world, where he stands with nothing in his hand but an invisible weight, and the sense of many others watching.

 _Who?_ says a voice both male and female, and then just as quickly answers, _You are returned. You delayed too long. There is not time._

Altair squares his shoulders and wishes for his black robes. "There is time if I say so," he says, knowing he sounds petulant. Sounds, in fact, like his old self. The self he tries to pretend has been neatly defeated and put aside. But something about this place drags out the truth in him; there are too many illusions built into the world itself to allow even one more brought in by others.

"I am the Grandmaster of the Assassin's Order," he adds. He's pretty sure the voice is always the same one, but a reminder never hurts.

 _Oh, indeed? Such a small thing. We did not build humans to understand true_ distance. _A few thousand years and your world will end. But you would fritter about as if you were eternal._

Altair asks with disinterest, "Are you supposed to be a god, then? Am I meant to be impressed by a myth?"

The he-she voice says, _Be impressed with what stands before you!_ The Apple takes form, but like the grey mist around them both the figure cannot hold its shape. Now it is female, with a sweeping, layered gown and complicated headdress. Now it is male, with a thick beard and powerful biceps. Now it is both at once. Altair smirks.

"I don't think so," he says. "For all the power of this thing, it's still just another weapon. My guess is you're a shred of yourself, put in here as a guide for whatever purpose. If anything the Apple is the master. I can't be impressed by a slave."

 _He says, he says_ , murmurs the creature. One blue eye and one brown open very wide. _We agree with you, fool that you are. We are not impressed by slaves. And what of our purpose? Would you not know it?_

"Your failures are your own." Growing impatient, Altair orders, "That hidden blade you showed me last time, tell me how to build it."

 _We showed you last time,_ says the voice in woman's guise. She is pretty, with her long, straight, brown hair and flashing eyes: pretty in a frozen way. Her dress is low against her breasts but the collar is high, brushing against her chin, her curves glimpsed behind translucent fabric. A delicate femininity of the type Altair has no use for, though she must think herself powerful.

"Show me again."

_Do you not remember?_

"You gave me riddles and half-truths last time. Not the whole thing."

_We gave you enough. We should not have given you anything at all._

"But you did. And you will."

 _Do not presume it,_ the figure thunders, flickering male. The headdress is molded differently now, rounded closer to the skull, and the cape it drapes over itself leaves an arm bare. It glows, backlit by nothing, as did its sister-self. _Do not presume that you are all-important. There are others, in this time and farther on. There will_ be _others. You are only one piece._

"Enough. Show me how to build the hidden blade."

 _You are one piece,_ she-he warns, _and under you everything your Order was will end._

"You are a weapon, not a soothsayer. Save your curses."

_It is not prophecy, Altair. It is fact. For we have seen and will seen, we who burned once already. And it is Desmond, not you, who will…_

"If you aren't going to tell me anything useful," says Altair, "I'll drop you off the side of the mountain and be done with it. I don't need your help. I don't trust it either, since it was offered so freely. If you aren't going to cooperate then you've run out of things to show me and you're as unnecessary as Malik says."

 _Ah, Malik,_ it coos, and the voice is female but different still. Now the hair is black as tar and the headdress cut into sections around the crown of its head and its forehead. The eyes are black as well. Altair watches closely, because this is the first time he's ever seen this avatar. _Yes, Malik, warning you of danger. Have you never thought that he is far more dangerous than we? There is much of us put into the Pieces of Eden, but we are scattered and our powers weakened. He is whole,_ says the voice in his ear, though the figure hasn't moved. _He is whole and so close. Nearness brings temptation, Altair, does it not? What color is he, when you use your second sight?_

Altair doesn't bother to ask how it knows he has eagle's vision. "Not red," he snaps, with a toss of his head.

_But not blue either. What sort of people are gold, Altair? What does gold mean for you?_

Altair looks at the black-haired, smirking thing, and takes a step backwards. Somewhere past the clouds are his table and his chair.

_Would you love him or kill him? Which do you want? We will help you do both._

Altair steps backwards again, reaching behind him for his actual self, for the actual world, pulling himself away…

But now the creature takes its male form again. Its features shift seamlessly, the high cheekbones of the females settling underneath the male's heavy brows. It's a layered creature, wearing all its skins at once, but at least it looks familiar now. _The hidden blade,_ it says, _depends on angles. The blade itself must be realigned._

Altair is still tempted to turn back. Despite that, he answers, "Moved too far to the front and it snaps. I've tried it," and feels himself drawn into the conversation almost against his will. Images flicker in the grey, sword-steel and brace-leather.

The Grandmaster forgets to leave.

_-i-_

A million miles away and yet in the same fortress, Malik sits reading through correspondence. He's sent spies to the reaches of their territory and beyond, without asking Altair, because it's usually too hard to find the man. His stealth is beyond human, and Malik dislikes chasing after him like a king's minister. Even if that's essentially what he is. Besides, he acts with Altair's tact approval.

He frowns over the missives in his hand, seeing the same words repeated over and over: conquest, invasion, destruction. All at the hands of a foreign army Malik's never come across before. More alarming than the talk of how they swarm over cities is the occasional mention of their leader.

 _He works with absolute control_ , writes one spy. _He is gifted with godly strength_ , writes another. _He is restless_ , adds a third, and for Malik this is key _. No sooner has he sacked one city, absorbing it into his massive empire, then he embarks for the next. He seems less interested in gold or trade or women than in the violence of battle. If he is searching for something it hasn't been found._

In Malik's experience men who fight for the sake of fighting don't manage to muster such massive armies for so long. It takes pretty words to get soldiers moving, righteous speeches or gold-stoked promises. Disillusion sets in quickly and is as fatal to generals as disease.

But what could he be looking for, this Genghis Khan? And wouldn't be _such_ a coincidence if his search led him here?

The assassins should be preparing for this. Open battle isn't the Brotherhood's strength but there are other tricks that might be tried. Someone probably should have assassinated the Mongol general already, but that someone would be the Grandmaster, and the Grandmaster spends more and more of his time in other worlds. He has given the Order weapons, yes, and techniques no one else can fathom, but the price is steep. The price is trusting the Piece of Eden.

Altair swears he won't use it against another person, swears that he saw with Abbas what could happen if its wielder lost control. Malik believes him, but Malik has been betrayed before.

He runs his fingers along the loose pages, feeling a sharp pinch in his missing wrist, and remembers the days just after the amputation, when the pain had been so tremendous he'd screamed for the surgeons to cut off an arm already gone. Altair hadn't been there for that.

"Uncle?"

Malik swallows the old anger and looks up. Darim pushes the door to his room open fully and steps inside. He's wearing a sword on his waist, specially designed to be lighter and shorter out of consideration for his age. Though he trains in groups like any other novice, the rules as to what weapons are doled out when have been laxed somewhat over the years. These days students are given what they think they can handle, and are beaten to the ground with their hubris if they're wrong.

"Safety and peace," Darim says formally. "I'm sorry to bother you, but have you seen Father? He was supposed to fight me in the courtyard half an hour ago."

Malik hides a sigh. "I'm sorry, I haven't. He's been very busy…"

"He's always busy." Darim smacks his palm against his leg. "I don't know why he bothered to keep me here. At least with Mother and Sef I'd get to see Acre."

"Your father is the Master of our whole Order," Malik reminds him sternly, "and that means he never has a moment to rest. You aren't a child any longer, Darim, you know this."

"Yes, Uncle."

Malik studies the boy's dejected face. It took him a while to adjust to the idea of Altair having children—and once the children were born he wasn't sure how he should act. As teacher, as relative, as friend? He ultimately settled on an uneasy combination of the three. But it's been easier in the year that Maria and Sef have been gone, because Malik recognizes the damage done by separating families. It isn't wise to keep the boys apart for so long. Brothers have duties to one another, do they not?

"Still," he says, "a man should keep his promises, and if your father promised you a training session he should have given you one. Come, if you'd like I can be his stand-in. I need to get some sword practice in myself."

Darim brightens. "Yes, Uncle! If, if you aren't too busy here?"

"It's nothing that can't wait."

"Then do you think I could use your throwing knives? Just one or two. And I'll aim at the ground, I won't even throw them that hard. Can I?"

"You've never used them before. Knives are dangerous, especially with a crowd watching."

"So we'll tell them to go away."

"It's the main courtyard. Where else should the guards be?"

"It doesn't matter, Uncle, if you tell them to go they will. You're Father's voice when he's not there. He always says as much." He sounds too confident. Sometimes there is hardness in Darim that is beyond his age. Certainly he speaks more as a man of fifteen years than a child of twelve.

"We need guards in the main courtyard."

"But you've got so many knives and the instructors keep saying I'm not old enough, and—and when Father was ten he was using them!"

"And did he tell you why he was using them?"

"Because he was a protégé. An amazing fighter from the time he was born, almost."

"Yes. But he was using them at ten because he used to steal them from the instructor's cupboards. He got caught when he nicked Abbas in the arm and had to survive off bread and water for a week."

"Oh. Really?" Darim considers. "Does this mean I should try to steal them?"

Someone else knocks at the door. "Come in," Malik calls, and an assassin in full facemask comes through. He holds a sniffling Tazim in his arms.

"The nurse said to bring him to you, Lord," says the assassin. "He's been fed and changed but won't sleep. She thinks he wants his father."

Malik stands up and holds out his arm. The guard hands Tazim over and bows his way out of the room, as the _Dai_ adjusts his careful grasp. Tazim whines but doesn't fidget much, as if he knows his father's injury.

"You," says Malik to his son, "should not be causing your nurse problems. Assassins don't complain without cause."

"Ababa," says Tazim, and flings out a little fist. "Bababa."

"I'm not sure if you're trying to say _Baba_ or just making noise. It'd be a little early for speech…"

"Bababa," Tazim says again, and beams. His eyes widen and he reaches out for Malik's stitched sleeve, gurgling, fascinated.

"Yes, there ought to be an arm there. Smart boy you are, eh?" Malik shifts his position a bit so that Tazim can reach the front of his robes. The boy proceeds to grab a handful before pulling his hand to his mouth and sucking on the whole thing. "There is a reason," sighs Malik, "why every robe I own has spit stains down the front."

Tazim giggles at his father's mock-stern voice. Most people think the _Dai_ contemptuous and flinch, which he knows because he sees them do it and is quite amused. But Tazim is delighted by nothing as much as his father pretending to growl.

"I should make you wash the laundry," says Malik, watching him. How used to his son he's become in these last several weeks! Suddenly his world is not merely the Brotherhood but something else once again. Suddenly he must consider this pudgy baby swaddled in white. Tazim is good-natured but willful, and when he gets it into his head that he does _not_ want to sleep or he _will_ eat immediately, he can yowl himself right out of the frustrated nurse's arms and into his father's. He always calms down around Malik.

Kadar was the same way. But there is no blood connection, so coincidence is all it can be.

"Uncle?" Malik, startled, looks up. He'd half-forgotten Darim was there. Altair's son looks morose again. "I guess you're busy now," he says. "I'll go train in the courtyard, then."

But Malik says, "Wait a moment. There's a blanket in the corner there, and a pillow. Grab them and _one_ throwing knife. If you can carry those for me I'll practice with you outside. _Itfudul_ , it's my pleasure."

Darim brightens and tugs his sword's holster straight against his hip. Malik, already wearing his, steadies Tazim and follows him out.

The main courtyard is full of novices throwing punches, and not a lot of shade; Malik frowns at all the careless students pushing through the crowds, the bearded _Rafiks_ and white-robed scholars standing in clumps, debating their favorites. Good to see the Brotherhood bustling, but no place to put a child. And in minutes those _Rafiks_ will be swarming the second-in-command with any manner of distractions.

"I know another place," says Darim. He leads Malik around the training ring to one of the outbuildings, then through it to a patch of grass hidden between the fortress and the inner wall. Malik has never been here and cranes his head to see if the Master's garden is visible, or the cliff. Sometimes he half-suspects the fortress is alive in its own right, shifting its halls and adding rooms, because no one—not even Altair—can say he's mapped every corner.

But it's a good space, out of the way and unused. Darim spreads the blanket in a patch of shade near the wall, and Malik nods his thanks as he lowers Tazim onto it.

"Ok," says Altair's son, "I'm ready."

"Not yet. If I'm going to teach you anything new I think it'd be wiser to do so with easier weapons. There should be some wooden swords back in the courtyard, if you ask Instructor Rauf."

Darim's face falls. "But, _Uncle_ …I know how to use a real sword. The blacksmiths made this one especially for me, I don't have any trouble lifting it."

"I'm aware. And when I'm sure you know what you're doing we can practice with steel. But I'd rather not have to explain to the Grandmaster why his son is missing a hand."

Darim looks as though he wants to argue more, his eyes darkening, but instead he turns to fetch the wooden practice weapons. Malik kneels by the blanket to wait, one eye on Tazim as he tugs on tufts of dying grass. By the time Darim returns, the baby has fallen asleep, his fist still buried in the weeds.

Malik scuffs one foot against the flagstones as Darim lifts his wooden sword. Malik lifts his own practice sword in his hand. He's fought enough one-handed that the light blade, little more than a stick, feels quick but unwieldy. Still, it doesn't take much to get comfortable again. Patterns learned from childhood are never totally forgotten.

"Begin," he says, and Darim scuttles around to his left side immediately. Malik blocks a quick swipe at his left shoulder and Darim teeters, then recovers again by stabbing forward and leaning on the swords. He still needs work on his balance. Malik resettles his feet facing the boy and sees Darim's eyes, bright and focused. He hardly has a brow to furrow.

Darim strikes again, one high and one low smack that Malik parries. The attacks are quicker than they are strong, and so Malik slices forward to test Darim's strength. When the swords hit they both shake: Darim's arms too.

The little eyas. No way to tell whether he might move like his father.

"Keep your guard up!"

The boy takes one hand off his sword, wincing. Instead of giving him another command Malik just attacks, striking down toward Darim's shoulder; he doesn't slow his attacks for the children. Darim isn't grown, so he needs to train against taller people.

Malik expects his sword to hit. But Darim twists out of the way in a movement that's mostly shoulders, and the _Dai_ nods appreciatively before stepping forward to close with Darim again.

This time Darim throws a glance and then a swing at Malik's left side. Malik, who's been expecting such a move, swivels on his heel and blocks with the center of his blade. Well-honed muscles hold his defense steady as Darim clenches both hands around his sword's hilt, trying to break through.

Malik says, "A good fighter takes note of his opponent's weak points and exploits them for his own gain." He squares one ankle in the dirt and transfers more strength to his arm, and now he's pushing the boy back a step. Darim's eyes widen over the struggle of their swords. "But a _great_ fighter," Malik continues, "realizes that any opponent with sense in his head will have practiced endlessly to cover the very obvious deficiencies. The great fighter finds a weak point that the opponent didn't realize he had."

And now Darim's stance is so wobbly that it takes barely a thought to twist around and shove him back. While his arms pinwheel Malik kicks his legs out from under him. Wooden sword and boy both go flying. The _Dai_ lowers his own and stands over Darim, smiling.

"You got a little carried away, but you were thinking like an assassin. Just hone those instincts."

Darim sits up. "I would've been better with a real sword," he mutters.

"Better to make your mistakes with a wooden one."

"When I train with Father we use real swords. Even Sef got one."

"Over my objections. Seven is too young."

Darim gets to his feet. "What business of it was _yours_?"

Malik raises an eyebrow.

"…Sorry," Darim says, flushing. "I didn't mean it, Uncle."

"We're doing too much talking for a training session, anyway. You've been taught parrying well but you're too rushed. Sword fighting is about grace, and right now you're tripping over your own maneuvers. Let me see you strike out smoothly."

Malik sets the boy to practicing his swings, and to his credit Darim takes the order seriously, with none of a typical novice's whining over the repetition's dullness. The _Dai's_ experienced gaze catches some mistakes in posturing and he calls for Darim to correct them. Then he falls silent, and the only sound in the courtyard is Altair's son attacking his invisible foe.

Tazim is still sleeping and Darim preoccupied. Malik slips into musing almost without intention.

_What business of it was mine? Good question. You've realized more than I thought. More than you should._

In an Order that protects society from the outside, where culture and custom are often set aside, allowances must be made. Al Mualim never married. Earlier leaders trained their sons and daughters both, and those trained poorly they buried. This is typical, Malik knows.

But even within the Brotherhood, Altair's family is _odd_.

How much displeasure there was at the Son of None's marriage to a former enemy, Malik isn't sure. Whispers of it came to him, because he is so good at eavesdropping, but Masyaf isn't Jerusalem. His network of spies wasn't yet as developed here. For his own part he was very careful to remove himself from the issue, to give neither approval nor dismay, only his vague blessing that Altair had the right to take a wife. It would not do for a man of his rank to be seen criticizing such a choice.

But if he'd had the freedom? If he could have been just another journeyman, muttering his unease?

What business is Altair's family to Malik? None at all. And yet—

_You who I thought would never marry. Did you think to make me jealous? I'd rejected you once. Did you think by making me nursemaid to your children you'd keep me here forever?_

A backfired plan, if plan it was. Malik isn't jealous of Maria, and he doesn't begrudge Altair's children their inherited role. He does his duty. He always has.

"Uncle?"

He looks up to see Darim has stopped practicing. "What is it?"

"You were barely watching."

"You're right, I was a hundred years away. My apologies."

"Are you worried about something? The Mongols, the villagers?"

"Not as such. But I see your father keeps you well-informed."

"He lets me sit in on some meetings. And others I, er…"

"Don't worry," Malik chuckles. "I'd think less of any son of his who didn't listen in on deep secrets from various secret passageways."

"You know about the passageways?" Darim looks aghast. "I thought I was being quiet all those times."

"You were, mostly. But who do you think ordered half of those passageways built? They're not entirely secret, I suppose. I should have killed the architect when he was done."

"Wha-at? But the fortress is ancient!"

"Every new ruler takes what he's been given and changes it, unless he wants to die the same way as his predecessor. Something to keep in mind."

"Does Father know they're there? I mean, he's the Grandmaster. He has to know _every_ thing."

"What your father does or doesn't know means very little to how well you hold your sword. Come, let's see you…"

"What about Mother? How much do you tell her?"

Malik pauses, looking at the boy. Again there is a clever glint in Darim's eyes that doesn't (shouldn't) fit. "I'm not privy to your parents' conversations," he says at last. "As the Grandmaster's wife I'm sure Maria knows much of the Order's inner workings."

"Some of the assassins don't like that." Darim won't take his eyes from Malik's. "I hear them talking, though not to me. Some of them don't like her."

"No, they don't."

"Why is that?"

"I'm sure you know enough already, Darim."

"But tell me anyway. The parts I don't know."

Malik pats his hip, where his holster hangs heavy and familiar. "Grandmaster's son you may be, but you're a little young to be barking orders."

"Please," Darim says, voice a little strained. "You're my father's most trusted advisor. No one else will tell me, and if they do they're probably lying. But everything he knows he tells you."

"Not everything."

"More than he tells anyone else. You're the most dangerous man in the Brotherhood. I heard Mother say it once."

"Did she really?" Malik muses.

"Please, Uncle. Sef's too young and silly to notice how weird things are. But I want to know."

Malik drops the wooden sword, abruptly. "You took a throwing knife, right?"

"Uh, yes."

"See that dark smudge on the far wall?"

"Not…really…?"

"That's your target. Hit it ten times in succession and I'll let you keep the knife."

"Oh!"

He waits until Darim has grabbed the knife and positioned himself (rather poorly, really, but the King of Swords lets it go). Then, over the swish of displaced air, the _thock_ of metal hitting stone, and the crunch of Darim's boots on the ground as he goes to pick up the knife again and again, Malik beings to speak.

He says, "Your mother is a Christian. That you know already. And before she joined us she was a Templar. That you've no doubt heard whispered if she hasn't told you outright. Focus on the target, Darim, not my voice. Don't let your aim be distracted. And don't lock your elbow when you throw."

"Yes, Uncle."

"What might be new to you is that Maria wasn't simply a Templar soldier. She was a close confidant of the man who was our greatest enemy, the leader of the Knights Templar." _And she was his lover too, if you believe the rumors,_ Malik doesn't add. He's moving now, in quick, wide circles around Darim, who swallows and keeps throwing the knife, fetching it, throwing, fetching, again and again. Malik keeps himself out of the weapon's path and says, "It went poorly for her after Altair killed de Sablé. Their culture isn't so different from ours when it comes to views of women. For Maria Thorpe to speak and dress and fight as a man…they accepted it because they had no choice. Once Robert was dead she was an easy target for blame, the temptress who clouded his mind and brought him to ruin."

"But that isn't true. Mother said the first time she met Father she fought with him. Nearly killed him. She didn't ruin anything."

"You're surprised at the backlash? A woman, Darim, barking orders at knights in Jerusalem?" Malik is close enough in his circling to jab the back of Darim's shoulder. Darim, startled, nearly drops the dagger. " _Focus._ You need to marry yourself to that knife. It needs to be an extension of your arm, your fingers. Any fool can throw a dagger and hope it lands. You must _know_ where it will land before it leaves your hand."

Darim doesn't answer, only goes to pick it up again. He's learning.

"So," continues Malik, "Maria lost her place. Her sword skills you must have noticed. I believe her father taught her. Her skill was what saved her life, if not her reputation. She battled her way out of Jerusalem and came here. Not to join us, but to fight us. Well, to fight Altair, since she blamed him for her ill fortune. Yelled her way right through the front gates. Altair nearly lost their fight, as I recall, but she was fighting hot with fury. Keep it in mind, Darim, not to do that. If you're angry, be so angry that you're sharp as ice. Otherwise your emotion will make mistakes."

Malik stops behind Darim again and watches his next few throws. If the boy's arm is getting tired he doesn't show it. His aim is true and there are only a few nicks in the wall where the knife has missed the target. Malik nods once, and resumes his pacing.

"She was kept here while we discussed what should be done." _I wanted to put her in a far-off prison. I didn't trust her. But I don't trust the Apple and you've never listened to me on that, either._ "Altair visited her often, speaking of our cause. He was fascinated by the idea of a woman fighter…your father has never had patience for weakness or charm, which is why I was sure he'd die a bachelor. Instead he marries the only woman for a thousand miles who can challenge him with a sword."

"And then?"

"And then you were born, and Sef. If the Brotherhood suspected their leader marrying a Templar woman they knew better than to say."

"What did you suspect?"

"I suspected theirs would be a loud engagement. If there's a man more stubborn than Altair, I haven't met him. And your mother is not a woman to bow meekly before her husband. Which is half the reason why he married her, he enjoys a good argument."

"Then why does Mother travel so often?"

Malik knows better than to answer fully. He moves closer to Darim, his black robes shielding his form, making it hard to pinpoint an individual arm or leg. "Maria still has contacts in Acre. She was used to traveling with Robert and I think the stationary life bores her. Your father would do the same if he could."

Finally Darim lowers his arm. The strain is back in his voice. "Why did she take Sef with her and not me? Did she think Father would notice? I don't think he has!"

 _I could tell you more,_ thinks Malik, looking at Altair's eldest and remembering how harshly it hurts to be abandoned. _I could tell you how the stares she gets in Arabia are no friendlier than the stares she got in England. I could tell you how she fights with Altair, the two of them bickering like the worst enemies. And when they don't make up quickly I could tell you what your father does. Where he goes._

"Altair is not good with affection," he says. "But he knows you're here. Maria wanted to take both her sons with her on this latest trip, but Altair refused it. Sef is younger, and a year apart from Maria would be hard for him. But Altair insisted you stay with him."

"Because he wanted me to train here, that's all. Not 'cause he cared."

"Because he wanted his son close."

Darim shakes his head. "How do you know all this? Did Mother tell you?"

"Some. The rest I found out in other ways."

"You find everything out."

"That is my duty."

Darim turns his gaze to the blanket where Tazim is beginning to stir. Distantly he says, "I miss them, but I don't. Mother writes often enough. And Sef is just…"

"Sef is your brother. I wasn't thrilled with this trip's timing, you know. Brothers should stay together."

"Ah, he'll be fine with Mother. It's not like he'll do anything when he's so lazy."

"He's your little brother," Malik says sternly. "You have responsibilities."

Darim isn't paying attention. Scowling, he hands the dagger back to Malik. "I don't think I'm very good with this. Every throw feels wrong, even when it hits the target."

Malik acknowledges, "It takes some practice." Nudging the knife's handle between his fingers, he tilts his wrist and lets a second knife slip unseen from his sleeve. With both knives positioned just so, and without looking at the target, without any obvious planning in his eyes at all, the _Dai_ twists his wrist and the weapons fly.

They hit the the wall so close together one nearly knocks the other out of alignment. The cut air sings around their wavering hilts.

Darim stares.

Malik strides over to pull his knives free, getting a closer glance at their placement in the process. "A little too far to the left," he says to himself. "I need to practice more myself."

His hand stings as he pulls the second blade out and stings worse when he flexes his wrist to prop the knife back into the holster under his sleeve. No wonder: the skin on the back of his hand is red and tight against the bone, swollen into blisters at spots around the knuckles. A couple of the blisters have already burst.

"Ew," says Darim, also noticing. "When did that happen?"

"Since the fire," Malik says absently. After he returned to Masyaf from the ruined village he'd put some salve on the worst of his burns and then, in an Altair-like way, promptly forgotten about them. He hardly had the time to linger on pain. He'd returned different then he'd left, and now there was a child to feed and clean and worry over…

"It looks bad, Uncle," says Darim. "You'll probably get scars from it."

"Probably." Malik looks over to where Tazim is stirring awake, struggling doggedly to push himself upright.

"Bababa," he calls, head up but the rest of his body still out of his control. It's early yet for him to sit but it hasn't stopped him trying. "Abaaa," he says, almost sounding indignant. He must love the feel of that sound, because it's all he ever says besides wordless infant babble. Malik scoops him up—his hand aches but he ignores it—and is pleased when Tazim giggles.

"What?" asks Malik. "Getting impatient, are we? Ready to go back inside?"

"Babaaaba."

"Such a demanding baby!" Tazim squirms, wrinkling his nose. Malik holds him more secure against his body and says over his shoulder to Darim, "I should get him to his nurse so he can eat. You did well today."

Darim says, "Um. Thank you for telling me about Mother. I didn't know the details."

 _You still don't,_ thinks Malik. But to Darim he only nods.

_-i-_

Altair returns to himself a wild animal, hackles raised. He staggers on numb legs, drops to all fours, crouching with feral eyes, the dungeon room so claustrophobic he thinks he could reach out and touch every wall at once. His white robes are stained in ugly patches with, with sweat? Blood? Does he know?

The Apple sits on the floor where it'd been dropped, glinting in near-darkness.

He pushes up to his knees in the swirling world, mind pounding with all he's been shown—but it's not enough—never enough—he must protect his Order—

He's on his feet now, panting, dimly aware of his nose dripping blood. He gives the bleed an irritated swipe of his hand, too busy to deal with it, much too busy, oh yes.

"What did they tell you this time?" Kadar asks.

The Grandmaster turns on his heel, fast enough that he trips. His gaze crashes down on the illusion with its clean uniform and earnest blue eyes. So friendly, this chimera. So much warmth and concern from what is only a _trick of the light_.

"Are you ok?" he asks. Altair cannot stop thinking of it as _he_. "You're bleeding again. And that was only a few hours, you've spent much longer…"

"Shut up," Altair snarls. "I'm busy."

"Busy with what?"

"I must, I need to, Malik must—"

"Malik's probably in his quarters at this time of day. Are we gonna go find him?"

Altair says, " _I_ will go." His lips feel swollen, the words gumming up behind his teeth. The room's close air is a gag pressing into his mouth. "You won't. You'll stay."

"Stay where?"

"Here."

Kadar laughs, good-naturedly. "Nope," he says. "Come on, tell me, did they show you anything really interesting this time? A new weapon or something? Maybe a bit of the future!"

"They…there is…a fire coming, and we are the shields…no. Not for their bidding. That isn't right."

"You sound awful, Grandmaster. I think you should sit down. Maybe send for a water carafe? I'm worried about you."

Altair presses his bloodied hand to his forehead. "Why do _you_ call me Grandmaster?"

"It's what you are. Heh! You must remember that."

"I was never…I was never your master."

"Nope," Kadar says again, and leans in close. "But, oh, how I _trusted_ you," he says softly, with a smile. "I would have followed your _every_ order, Altair."

Does Altair even control the hand that slashes upwards? It is such a habit by now. He stabs what should be the illusion's face with his hidden blade, but Kadar only flickers out and reforms by the door.

"Malik's not gonna like seeing you like this," he says. "I think you should wait."

 _Malik._ Altair grabs hold of the name, like a beacon bobbing in a frothing sea, and pushes on.

**_-i-_ **

There are phials of salve and bandages scattered across the table top, but after the third time Malik knocks a bottle over he's tempted to shove everything to the floor and tend to paperwork instead. He can knife his target blindfolded and walk with confidence on a mountain's edge, but the simple act of dressing his burns is nearly beyond him. It's impossible, he grouses in a rare moment of self-pity, to bandage a wound on his hand when he's only got the one hand to use!

Damn the ointments, anyway. Allah knows what's in them, these slimy tinctures from Baghdad the healers favor. Malik has become an elderly waste if he can't survive a burn or popped blister.

He reaches over with his hand hurting even worse from the aborted wrapping attempt to pull out a sheaf of expensive paper, and in the space of the movement his door is shoved open. Malik jerks back, alarmed at being taken by surprise. He should have heard any visitors from a mile of creaking floorboards away.

But it's Altair who stands staring with burning eyes in his doorway, and Altair has always been a phantom.

"Malik," says the Grandmaster.

"Yes?" says Malik, irritated already, caught in this vulnerable moment with his burns exposed.

"Malik," Altair says again, still staring. He's swaying where he stands, and there is a bit of dried blood around his nostrils.

"What is it, Altair? Did you need something?"

Altair opens his mouth to say something, but what, Malik never learns. Instead of speech the older man crosses the room in fast strides, on him in a second's breath, pressing him against the chair. Suddenly there are hands on Malik's waist, his shoulders, suddenly there are hands with scars he recognizes better than his own shoving off his black robes. Those hands are frenzied, must be kept engaged: they tug at the front of Malik's white garb next, pulling open the ties, exposing his chest.

Malik makes a half-smothered noise of protest. It's late. Tazim's wet nurse is only just down the hall, and she could walk in with a cranky baby at any time. He's not in the mood. Altair ignores him, and with reason. Malik's hands have already grabbed the Grandmaster's hips to pull him down.

How many times have they done this? How often do they grapple with each other in half-silence, wary of discovery? It was more frequent, once…

Malik doesn't count that time in Jerusalem—can't count it, for his own stability. ( _I'm sorry, I'm sorry._ ) But once Altair had become Grandmaster and recalled Malik back to Masyaf, once his fear of failing had been made clear (made clear to Malik, anyway, amazed as always at how everyone around them kept falling for Altair's confident veneer), how many times then? Near countless. The two of them grasping for things that were familiar, still tense around each other, the not-so-old poisons liable to bubble forth at any time…and every time they fucked there was acerbity, like something rotten deep down. At every stolen moment they snuck away, daring in their blatancy, and every time Altair sucked Malik's cock it was a tacky sort of penitence.

Their coupling dwindled, though, after Maria. Altair comes to Malik far less and Malik never searches the other man out. A dozen times, in the past eleven years? Maybe a time or two more? The feel of a muscular body against his, the press of teeth on his neck, these are things Malik usually does without.

He is brought roughly back to the present by Altair's mouth working down his chest, stopping briefly to bite at his nipple. Malik knocks off the man's cowl, buries his fist in his hair and pulls hard. Altair allows it for a second.

Then Malik finds himself on his back on his desk, panting with his robes bunched around his shoulders. Ointment bottles are scattered and break against the floor. His hardening prick strains against the inside of his breeches; he waits with a show of impatience for Altair's hands and mouth.

Altair leans over him. His eyes drift in a very unlike-him way, more dazed than lustful. He puts his hands on Malik's shoulders, moves them down under the clothing to touch skin, but he stops abruptly when the one hand reaches the amputation.

Malik frowns. This hesitancy is unusual, and frustrating. "Yes," he says, voice withering but a little breathy, "Yes, there's nothing there. Congratulations on your discovery. Is that all you came to see?"

But Altair has no retort, smirking or otherwise. "Your hand," he says, distractedly.

"Burns from the fire. It's nothing."

"You shouldn't have gone in there."

" _Now_ you want to discuss this?! A second ago your mouth was too busy for lectures."

Altair picks up the offending hand by the wrist, studies it, brings it to his mouth. Malik squirms, reacting more with bafflement than lust as Altair sucks at his fingers. It's awkward enough having sex with Altair, knowing he's married and a father. This sudden softness isn't helping.

Keeping his grip tight on Malik's wrist, Altair lowers the hand down its owner's body, trailing down his chest to the lip of his breeches. Malik, understanding, pulls his hand free and his prick out. Gently at first he strokes himself, and then harder, pressing his palm tight against the shaft. Altair watches, breathing hard.

"Malik," he whispers.

"Mm," says Malik, distracted now himself. The urge is building, wanting more than his own hand, wanting Altair on him or in him or both.

"Malik, you…"

"Undress yourself, Grandmaster. I want, _nh_ , I want you to…"

"Malik," says Altair a third time, still leaning over him, still fully dressed, "why aren't you _blue_?"

The _Dai's_ hand stills. "…What?"

"Gold isn't right. It's just as she said. You do it to taunt me, I think." So saying, Altair reaches for Malik's prick. Malik stares at him, and then realizes, and wants to strangle them both.

He settles for cracking his elbow against Altair's jaw as he sits up and tries to make himself decent. The Grandmaster sits down hard, a hand to his jaw, and blinks.

" _Idiot_ ," shouts Malik, getting to his feet in a fluster. "Brainless fool!"

"I am not…"

"Oh, don't make me mention what _you_ are, _Master_. I should have noticed at the start. You were using _it_ again."

"It?"

"The Apple! And now your head is filled with sand. What if there was an attack on the fortress tonight, Altair? What if there was some crisis? What should I have said to the others? 'Sorry, the Grandmaster cannot lead you in battle today, as he currently thinks he's in ancient Rome!"'

"An attack tonight seems unlikely," Altair mutters, still rubbing his jaw from the floor.

"Al Mualim often vanished in the latter years of his rule," snaps Malik in response. "It did the Order no favors, so why you seek to emulate him…!"

The forbidden mention of his old mentor pulls something of Altair back into his body. He rises to his feet in open anger: "You go too far, Malik. Watch your tongue."

 _Again it works,_ thinks Malik with wry relief. _Again it was enough to bring you back. And if next time you are too far gone to remember where or who you are, too far gone to come back?_

"Well?" barks Altair.

"Well, what?"

"Normally an assassin apologizes to his Master when the Master is displeased."

"That would require me caring what the Master thinks, which I assure you I do not. Besides, I'm under orders never to apologize. Unless," –Malik looks at him sharply– "Unless you don't remember that decree. What else don't you remember? Do you know what village you're in?"

"We're in the fortress, don't be so inane."

" _Where_ is the fortress?"

"Masyaf! Because I don't remember every word I've ever said to you, I've lost my mind?"

"Because you come staggering in here like a horny drunkard—"

" _Said bousak_."

"I'll shut my mouth when I've finished speaking and not before."

"I have no patience for another one of your lectures."

"Why would you come in here as if I'd want you when you were possessed? Did you think I was pining for you that much? Out of your mind and you thought I'd be interested? So typical, Altair."

Altair stiffens his shoulders. "I've other things to do then listen to you whine," he says coldly, and takes a step for the door. But his legs waver, nearly fall out from underneath him, and he has to press a palm against the wall to steady himself. Malik bites back a groan.

"You can't leave yet," he says, calmer. "The others can't see you looking like this."

Altair doesn't answer.

"Look, why don't you rest for a while? Give the ghouls a chance to leave your head."

"They aren't ghouls," says Altair. But he lets Malik take him by the arm and pull him over to the bed, where he stands frowning at the pillows. "And you?" he asks. "Where will you sleep?"

"I wasn't planning on sleeping for a while yet. There's paperwork to finish and afterwards I'm going to check on Tazim. He's been restless these past nights." Altair frowns but keeps silent. "Unless you'd rather not be alone?"

"What do I care?" mutters the other man. "I wouldn't be, anyway. I'd _rather_ be alone, if he'd give me a moment's peace."

Malik pinches the bridge of his nose. The Piece of Eden's hold is too strong. It leaves traces of itself, scabs that Altair will be picking at for days, mumbling like an addict. Which is, in Malik's esteemed opinion, what he is.

"What can it show you?" he wonders aloud, half-accidentally. "What can it show you that's worth this?"

"Everything," says Altair, without hesitation. He sits on the bed, sits but doesn't lie down, legs spread and hands held still between them. Even now his posture is that of the consummate assassin, every muscle in his body held ready to strike.

But he hasn't pulled his cowl back up. Malik sits down beside him, awkward because he still has a flagging erection, and looks at him quite openly. Their friendship is worth nothing if he can't figure all this out.

"Tell me, Malik," says Altair after a moment, and his tone is hazy again, his eyes unfocused. "You remember Jerusalem?"

"Of course."

"You remember the last time in Jerusalem? When we…"

Malik sucks in a noisy breath. "Enough, Altair," he says. "Enough for tonight."

"But you do remember." Altair's eyes dart to meet his. "Don't you? And what you said. You never mentioned it again. I don't know if you meant it."

"Altair, stop."

"But _do_ you remember?" the Son of None insists. Malik, despite himself, knows he's helpless to resist. It has always been the fatal flaw of both of them: to crave and covet, to never let anything alone.

 _Do you remember?_ Jerusalem, when everything between them was a shambles, soaked through with blood and bile, Jerusalem and what Malik said there, in the shadow of his brother's grave.

"Yes," he says, and Altair shivers beside him. And maybe it was unavoidable. Maybe Malik was a novice himself, in this bizarre world the Son of None has created for the both of them, to think such things could be forgotten while in the background the Apple always prods.

"I remember what I said," says Malik, and before he can put words to what he means (that certain things should stay buried, that they have enough recent histrionics without adding the moldering ones to the pile), Altair gives another shudder and falls against him.

Cursing to mask his astonishment, Malik tugs the semi-conscious Grandmaster off and over, until his body is at least mostly on the bed. He stands over, putting his face close to Altair's to catch the feel of breath on his cheek. "Novice," he says loudly, and Altair's eyebrows furrow for a quick moment before smoothing out.

Sighing, Malik straightens up. Nothing to do now but let the Son of None sleep off the Apple's drugging pull. And then tomorrow, or whenever the man wakes up, he will be lucid and have some fantastic weapon design for the Order to ooh over, and he will look unruffled and clever and _godlike_ —

And only Malik will know Altair as he is when the Apple has him, Altair babbling, caught in memories he spends the rest of his days avoiding. A stronger second-in-command would take his concerns to the others, if the Brotherhood was really what he lived to serve.

But Malik serves Grandmaster Altair. He is not strong enough to do otherwise.

He watches the Son of None in his fitful rest, knowing nothing of what demons the man fights in his dreams, knowing only that he himself is not able to kill them. Knowing that he is a failure in this as in so much else in his life.

Knowing that it is still so gratifying to see Altair suffer.

_Do you remember what you said in Jerusalem?_


	4. Before: Talal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Familiar lines, here as elsewhere, lovingly yanked from AC1.

_Jerusalem_

_Before_

Long before he arrives, Malik knows Altair is coming.

He is the _Dai_ of Jerusalem, after all, and has been so for nearly two years. His web of informants is an intricate one, his understanding of how the city functions absolute. Every time a guard takes a bribe or a caravan smuggles in untaxed goods, Malik has already guessed whether the guard will be discovered or the caravan master betrayed. His men at the bureau are loyal to the point of death.

And so he has much warning of Altair's mission, even before one of Al Mualim's pigeons comes flapping in. It is slipped to him in wary tones, by a nervous journeyman new to Jerusalem and well versed in the myth of fearsome _Dai_ Malik. His anger is legendary in the city, kept at a permanent simmer, easily boiled over. Malik takes the news well, though, giving the messenger the briefest of raised eyebrows and then turning back to his work. It's as if he's forgotten who Altair is, and what Altair did.

Later, when the journeymen under his bureau roof have stopped muttering and sending him perplexed looks when they think he can't see, Malik steps out from behind his desk and climbs to the roof. There are three entrances out of the bureau: the assassins slip through the hidden roof grate and oblivious customers walk through the front door. The third is known only by the _Dai,_ a narrow staircase of cool stone and dust.

On the roof, Malik stands with his feet at the very edge and looks out over the city. His city. He knows it in brown and green and spurts of red. She robbed him so mercilessly, did Jerusalem, the whore, fought over by everyone for every stupid reason since the first light of the world. How he hates the thought of her.

How comfortable he feels within her walls. Malik has only been back to Masyaf once since his promotion and it could have been any village but it wasn't home. In Masyaf he'd been a stranger. In Masyaf they still stared. Malik makes the novices in Masyaf _uncomfortable_.

Not until he left did he feel himself relax. Passing by a public fountain, green with mold, crowded with women washing laundry and children, he caught a glimpse of himself in the water: eyes shadowed and sunken, beard allowed to darken, the sword strapped to his waist not as clean as it might be. The missing arm.

Only in brutal Jerusalem can he recognize himself.

Jerusalem is a city carved from the desert rock to be a holy place, and so it has become for him—a twisted, bitter place that has plenty of room for his own bitterness. Kadar died here, and here Malik stands watching the city that killed him. Yes, it is his holy place! It holds the bones of the martyr.

He stares out at the sand-colored buildings that wrap around in every direction. Jerusalem in this season is surprisingly cool at night and lush, green with wildflowers that grow in the cracks of old roads. The various religions have cornered themselves off but in a place like this there can't help but be some bleed-through, and so Malik sees Christian monks walking past Muslim _madrassah_ students, who pour out of squat rooms tacked on behind mosques. Farther in the distance, not far from the Temple ruins, is the city's largest synagogue, stars carved into wooden slats painted a peeling green. The roof is high and steeply pointed, perhaps to compete with the many minarets and church bell towers.

Balconies sprinkle shade in scorching daylight, wash-lines stretch between buildings put together out of scrap metal, refugees squat by open sewers and linger by the benches in the many little, public gardens.

He knows every alleyway by sight and foot's memory. It's expected of a _Dai_ to know his city and of a mapmaker to know his world, but more than any of that Malik refuses to be caught unaware again.

Still, it can be very overwhelming. With heaviness in his chest he can only now, alone, reflect on, Malik closes his eyes to Jerusalem's cacophony.

Altair Ibn La'Ahad is coming here.

Malik has heard of his ridiculous redemption quest, how he goes from city to city killing those deemed unworthy by their Master. All are supposedly Templars, although rumor has it Altair has been questioning his targets in detail before dispatching them. Typical. Even now he would prove everyone but himself incorrect. Altair has been to Damascus and Acre and now he will come here. To Malik's refuge.

It's his instinct to refuse him entrance, regardless of Al Mualim's orders. Is there not some other name, in some other place, to give the Son of None? Can't one of Malik's own men kill this target? If Malik walked until his feet bled and sat with the _djinn_ of forgotten places, would that be far enough away? Will Altair never die, never _leave_?

But interfering might be a mistake. It might suggest to the idiot that Malik has spent the past two years seething over—and in seething, remembering—the Son of None. And he hasn't, truly. It's another one of Jerusalem's backwards boons, that he has been too busy trying to keep the city stable to think much of Altair. Of what Altair might be doing at any given moment. Whether he has spent all this time alone.

Malik has not been alone, not by far, and if Altair is coming here than that is what he should see. "I have been doing my duties," he says out loud. And it's true.

So, fine. Let Altair enter the Jerusalem bureau. Let him be treated as any other bumbling novice playing fetch for their Master. Fine. The King of Swords keeps his eyes shut. The wind's weak breath brushes his face.

He opens his eyes and, with cat's grace, jumps.

His black robes open and billow. He drops through thick night air, the clearing rains still some weeks away. His boots hit the cracked street without sound, as he lands lightly, toes a split second before heel, the rest of him in a neat crouch. It was a battle to regain his balance after the amputation but he has won it: he has turned it into a rout for his demons.

As though he'd intended to all along, Malik walks out of the alleyway and through a cluster of shacks to his left, then turns at a bit of broken statuary and moves past a row of benches clustered around a dry fountain. At this hour the benches are empty, but not the streets; cloaked figures hurry around corners and up weather-worn stairs. The occasional quilted jacket and brown turban of the city watch can be seen, the men wearing them hard-eyed and unfailingly bearded, hands always clamped to the hilts of their swords.

Malik isn't worried. He only raises his cowl for protection.

He wonders what message Al Mualim's pigeon will bring when it arrives. Which of Jerusalem's many villains has been marked for death? Malik runs some likely names through his head but doesn't feel much besides disgust for this latest charade. The truth is there's no one, to his knowledge, who _needs_ to die, right now, for stability's sake. Al Mualim may have his own reasons…or it may be another one of his games. Another test.

Malik brings his hand to his shoulder. The old man of the mountain does so love his blood sacrifices.

But it's Altair, not Al Mualim, who has caused so much trouble. Malik fantasizes for a moment about giving him an incorrect map when he comes, in hopes that he'll follow it right off the edge of the Mount of Olives. Or, better yet, he'll give him _no_ map. Let Altair do the hard work on his own, and then when he fails and blunders into a Templar hideout, close the bureau's roof grate and let him save his own ass.

Malik grimaces, lowering his hand. As nice, as necessary, as it is to imagine Altair an untalented fool, it isn't true. He has always been a magnificent fighter.

The _Dai's_ feet take him deep into the sleeping city, trailing the cobblestones past trash heaps and arches. Once he crosses a wide thoroughfare, one of the main roads towards Jerusalem's great, domed _souk;_ in daylight it would be just visible at the road's far end, blocked by merchants' stands and palm trees browning in the sun. At night the road is empty, the stands shuttered, the crowds elsewhere, the _souk_ lost to the dark.

Malik crosses the main road quickly, turns left up a flight of steep steps, and left again past an alcove crammed with sleeping figures. What awake men he passes—and at this hour they are all men—are of similar condition, muttering in dirty cloaks, stumbling along the paths. Drunkards, or lepers. Malik nods at a few he recognizes, because this is not his first nighttime trek and Jerusalem's poorest can be great sources of information for the bureau, but mostly he keeps his distance.

His feet carry him on. They know where he's going even if he goes there without thought.

The road he is on now is a cramped, ugly one. Buildings on either side list tiredly, each forced to hold up its neighbor's weight as well as its own. There are hay carts, ladders propped up to reach roof apartments, and a lot more heaps of trash, but here there are no gardens. No public fountains. Only the stench of too many people with too many sickly children living on top of each other, in a place where even Jerusalem's sun struggles to reach.

He stops for a moment at a fork in the road, judging the noises around him. A bench along one wall has been claimed by a sleeping figure, wrapped in enough rags to be sexless. A structure across the way claims with etchings of cross and crucifix to be a church, but the one window it has is shattered and there are some suspicious stains by the door.

And there are footsteps, behind him and ahead. This deep into the slums it could be anyone: soldiers looking for fun or whores looking for trade, more beggars, petty criminals. Not-so-petty criminals. A district to avoid, especially at night. But Malik goes where others wouldn't. He has left enough groaning pickpockets behind to ensure the criminal elements of the city know not to bother the men in white.

He keeps walking.

Finally he reaches a row of wooden huts, all much smaller than the buildings they're surrounded by, each with a lone window. He passes by without glancing at them, stops at the end of the road to wait. Mud seeps around his boots, an unfortunate thing, because it's been a while since there was rain. He looks back and sees a lantern has gone on in one of the huts, its light gleaming through the window.

Malik lowers his cowl. In contrast, the figure that slips from the hut is wearing his, using the grey fabric to almost vanish into the dark. Only when he draws close to Malik can his features be seen.

"Safety and peace, _Dai_ ," says Raed with his usual formality, and bows. Malik returns the greeting and pulls his cowl up again, for safety's sake. "I wasn't sure if it was you or someone else," Raed comments. "But no one else would walk past with such confidence in the middle of the night."

"I hope I didn't wake you. How are things here?"

"We're making progress, I think. You were right, the poor districts were completely ignored under the last _Dai._ He must have spent all his time wooing the rich king-makers."

"He was a fool. Not worth a thing compared to Faraj." Malik brushes away this blackness. "But we've corrected that mistake."

"Indeed. Some of the big names around here, the thief-lords and such, have pledged their loyalties. If the Templars seek to make inroads with the poor here, they'll find it hard going."

"I doubt they'll try. It's one of that Order's many flaws. They are so concerned with ruling the world they forget there are people living in it. You'll find Templars masquerading as knights but never as beggars or apprentices."

Raed shakes his head. "I've often wondered what exactly they want."

"Power and riches and our heads on pikes, of course. What else could they want?"  
"Yes. _Dai_?"

"What is it?"

"Ah…" Raed hesitates, looking perplexed. "Did you come all the way here at this hour to discuss Order business? I was going to come by the bureau tomorrow with a full report."

Malik shakes his head. "No. I'm not sure why I came. Wanted to see the city, I suppose, make sure it was still standing. And then I ended up here."

Raed nods. "Your reasons are your own, of course."

"Still, I apologize for bothering you."

"You are a better visitor than most we could have had at this hour."

At this, Malik frowns. "Raed—"

"But don't worry about that," insists the other man with a smile, "as I've told you."

"And I've told you, there's no need for you to take this assignment. You have a family. There are safer parts of the city I could put you."

"But this is where the most work needs doing. I told you I would serve you, Lord."

"Serve me as a spy in the rich districts, then. This neighborhood is no place for your children, or your wife."

"She knew when we married that she was marrying an assassin. Besides, she's formed her own little alliances with the women here, at the well and the market. It's amazing how much men will say in front of their forgotten wives!"

Malik says, "Our Order would be incompetent without ladies' gossip. Thank her for me. But they gossip in the better parts of Jerusalem too, you know. They gossip just as loudly in Masyaf."

"But you are here," Raed says firmly. "In this city."

"That doesn't mean you need to be."

Raed frowns, ducks his head. Malik can read the tinge of irritation in how he tugs at his beard. "I told you," he says, "that for what you did I would follow you anywhere. To the edge of the earth."

"Yes…" Malik's eyes dim, remembering. He'd saved Raed's family in the first Templar attack on Masyaf, and then…then, much later, while he lay wrapped in bandages, half-dead with his burden, Raed came again and promised absolute allegiance.

Malik had asked Al Mualim for Altair's head, and when he'd been denied—the Master with his secret plans—he'd asked for two other things, one of which was to be sent out of the village. Sent anywhere else. And as it happened the current _Dai_ of Jerusalem was unhappy with his post…

Malik knew Jerusalem then as Faraj's lost city, as Kadar's. He knew it as a place of ghosts, which was why he accepted the position. And when he'd begun packing for the move (the healers fretting around him and his stitches until he scattered them like pigeons), Raed had come to him a third time, when others hadn't. Something Malik doesn't intend to forget.

"Well," he says now, "Jerusalem isn't quite the edge of the earth, although this bit might as well be." He scratches at the back of his neck, while Raed waits patiently. "I suppose I didn't come here in the middle of the night to argue with you, either."

" _Dai_ ," says Raed, slowly, "I heard the news about Altair today."

Malik's hand stills. "What about him?"

"That he's coming here—"

"On some fool's errand. It's of no concern to me." Malik starts walking, once again led by his feet rather than the other way around. This time, though, Raed trails after.

"Altair!" says Malik. "You see how he does it? One mention of him and the whole Order falls to whispering like old biddies at the well."

"Gossip is useful, you just said."

"Gossip _can_ be useful." He glowers, stamping hard on the stone. "There is nothing _useful_ about Ibn La'Ahad. He's no better than a hired killer."

Raed says nothing. It's better that way, else Malik might have to openly admit how silly he sounds.

They walk in silence for some time. Malik has an urge to take to the rooftops, to climb until he can't climb any higher and then lose himself in the flight down. But instead he stops by a stack of crates and presses his palm to one, mindless of the pinprick of splinters. Raed, a step behind, also stops.

"It annoys me that he's coming here," says Malik at last, to the crates. "This is my place. I've shed a lot of blood to make it so."

"Refuse him your help, then. It's within your rights. As _Dai_ you have to let him into the bureau, but you don't have to aid his quest."

"Is that what you think I should do?"

"I think you should do whatever brings you peace, Lord."

"I can't kill him, so there's little hope of that."

"Would it make you happy?" wonders the other man. "If Altair died?"

Malik frowns. "No. The lucky die. The unlucky suffer."

"From the sound of things he has suffered…"

"He doesn't know what it means! You have to be whole to be able to shatter." Malik realizes he is shouting and tempers his voice. "I'd like to take him back to Solomon's Temple. Maybe then he'd learn."

"With respect, _Dai_ , why have you never gone back there? It's on the outskirts of your city but you avoid it as though it was a hundred miles off."

"Is that so strange?"

"No, but we know the Templars used to gather there. And also, the, the body may still be—"

"It isn't. You think Robert de Sablé left it there? You think his group of bastards didn't…? Hah!" Malik snarls his laugh past his throat. "I made that choice once already. Something else Altair has yet to realize."

He's shouting again. Raed looks somber. "I'm sorry," Malik makes himself say. "It's too late for this. I should be at the bureau anyway, waiting for Al Mualim's pigeon."

"Lord, I think…"

"Go home," Malik orders. After a second he thinks to add, "And stop calling me Lord," but Raed doesn't smile.

"I hope you find some comfort out here," is all he says. Then he does turn to go.

"Raed," says Malik. The assassin stops and looks over his shoulder. "I lied before. I don't care who it makes happy. But I want Altair dead. With all my being I want that. I want to see the look on his face when he realizes there are _consequences_. He acts as if he's never been hurt before, when we were so…"

"I know you two were very close," Raed says without much inflection. Malik wonders just what rumors he's heard. It's been a long time since he's thought of Abbas, but somehow he doubts absence has made Abbas's ugly tongue grow fonder.

"He killed my brother," says Malik, "and he doesn't care. I want him to care! I want to give him wounds that won't close, that keep him awake and groaning in bed—I want him to see how fucking _alone_ he is and then I want him dead."

Raed says, "If he really has been tasked with nine executions, you might get your wish." But he says it with something very close to pity, and pity is something Malik cannot stand.

"Go back, Raed," he shouts, and punches the crate. His fist goes through dry, crumbling wood, and the whole stack gives way with a dusty clatter. A dog starts barking, a few windows nearby show flares of light. And Raed, ever-loyal, leaves the _Dai_ of Jerusalem alone with the wreckage.

_-i-_

Altair arrives three weeks later. It is a hot day and the bureau is stifling, the smoke from the incense vials Malik keeps lit not enough to mask the smell of human sweat. Someone drops lightly down from the roof grate. The light streaming in from the entry room, bright with the late afternoon, shows a long shadow straightening up. Malik, behind his wooden counter, hears him land and _knows_ it's him, and feels so nauseous the world tilts.

Altair strides in as if he has done this many times. The bureau walls should crumble and the ground should sway, the whole city should rise up in disgust but instead it lets him stand here.

His shoulders are squared, his cowl raised. It's the first time they've seen each other in nearly two years, and somehow he still looks the same. Oh, his robes are scoured of ornamentation and his only weapon is a sword strapped to his back, but Al Mualim let him keep his white robes. He is still tall and lissome and braced for quick movement. Malik has spent the last years thinking him a monster—it comes as something of a shock to remember that Altair is brutally handsome.

"Safety and peace, Malik," he says, so smoothly. As if there aren't years of difference between them. Why does he still hold himself like such a _hero_?

"Your presence here deprives me of both." Malik tries for frosty disinterest but comes off, he thinks, as dull. To salvage himself he adds, "What do you want?" before Altair can comment. Before there can be any hope in the Son of None's mind that they might talk as if they were past acquaintances.

"Al Mualim has asked that I—"

But even to let the murderer speak is too much. Malik snaps over him, "That you perform some _menial_ tasks in an effort to redeem yourself. So be _out_ with it."

"Tell me what you can about the one they call Talal," Altair says. If he is ruffled he doesn't show it.

Images of the man in question flick through Malik's head. Talal's a local arms-dealer, selling war booty to both sides if rumor can be trusted. The _Dai_ has had men shadowing him for some time, after hearing reports of Talal adding slavery to his list of merchandise, an act Malik refuses to allow in his city. But he hasn't called for the man's death just yet, because the rumors don't say who is getting the slaves. It isn't the Crusaders or the Saracens, he's pretty sure, and so to keep what must be a wide slavery ring from going into hiding he has been treading carefully.

All ruined now, of course. The ring, if it exists, will scatter once Talal is killed, and also…

also…

Altair is standing in Malik's bureau and staring at him. It is intolerable.

"It is your duty to locate and assassinate the man," Malik says tightly, "not mine."

"You'd do well to assist me. His death benefits the entire land."

('You'd do well' _._ And in the past it was, 'maybe you'll learn something', and, 'I am your superior'. The Master thinks this creature is capable of redemption?)

"Do you deny his death benefits you as well?"

Finally Altair looks riled. Nervous, maybe. He tosses his head: "Such things do not concern me." And that casual arrogance is more than can be born.

"Your actions _very much concern me_ ," Malik roars, and jabs his hand at his left shoulder. From throughout the bureau come the sounds of eavesdropping journeymen flinching backwards, into each other and assorted bits of pottery. Altair doesn't flinch, but he does drop his head. Malik can see his hands, wound tight into fists, the knuckles white with pressure.

Not enough. Not enough that Altair should flinch from the amputation. Let him flinch from the rest of his crimes! Malik struggles for a few hours of sleep each night, wanders the bureau for hours more, knowing even if he can't see them that ghosts crowd the halls: let Altair flinch from _Kadar_ , if he wants to play at fear!

"Goddamn you," Malik hisses, straining for calm. He mustn't look as though he cares. Altair sucks in a noisy breath before lifting up his head.

"Then don't help me," he says, but perhaps there is a trace of desperation hidden behind the petulance. "I'll find Talal myself."

It's tempting to let him storm off, tempting to damn him to his own future, for Malik has had enough of their fates being tied. But Malik is also the leader of this bureau; this is his place, and he will not let Altair cause it damage.

"Wait." He sighs, loudly, brimming with impatience. "It won't do, having you stumble about the city like a blind man. Better you know where to begin your search."

"I'm listening."

"I can think of three places," and this is happening, they are having this conversation, Malik is giving Altair information when he should be tearing out his throat. This is the truth, then: Malik knows he is a coward. "To the south of here, in the markets that line the border between the Muslim and Jewish districts. To the north, near the largest mosque of this district. And at the eastern side of St. Ann's Church."

"Is that everything?"

"It's enough to get you started," Malik growls, "and more than you deserve."

Altair lingers a second too long. Something suspicious, something hesitant, crosses his face. To disrupt this the _Dai_ reaches under his counter for a heavy book of maps he keeps handy, pulls it out and slams it down as hard as he can. "Well?" he demands. "I've given you all the help you'll get. Why are you still here?" And before Altair can answer: "I doubt Talal is hiding in my bureau. Attend to your task!"

He flips the book open to a page, pulls a quill from its inkpot and begins to write. He can feel Altair's eyes on him, watching him work. _Yes,_ he thinks, _I'm nothing like you remember, am I? It's more than my arm you've changed in me._

When he looks up, Altair is gone, out there in Jerusalem trampling on graves. Malik expects to feel relief, but there is only a dull abhorrence, like an open sore left to throb.

_-i-_

Altair does not return that day, or that night, or the day after. Malik considers sending some of his most dependable men after him—men who won't spread stories of their leader's obsession. But on the second night Altair drops down into the entryway and moves for the fountains. The crowd of assassins washing there falls silent and scatters. What had been a full room empties in seconds.

If Altair notices that his Brothers treat him as a leper victim, he gives no sign. At the fountain he splashes water over his (bruised, sunburnt) face, then dips his head in for a long drink. Malik is at his counter in the next room, still at work updating a map of the roads to Acre. He doesn't say a thing to Altair's shadow when it crosses his desk.

But when Altair himself looks in, well. That is different.

"Hoping I might do your job for you?" Malik asks icily, without raising his eyes from his map. Without checking to see what new wounds Altair might have gathered. "Have you found Talal? Are you ready for your mission?"

"…No," Altair admits.

Now Malik does look at him. It's expected that journeymen on assignments check in nightly with the local bureau leaders. It isn't expected that Altair ever bothers to do so, because he never has before, and no one's ever chastised him. But as the _Dai_ reminds himself now Altair is not the Master Assassin for whom rules are ignored. He's not even a journeyman. He's a lowly novice.

"There is more for me to learn," says Altair, slowly.

Malik taps his quill to the desk. "In that we agree," he says. "Get out of my bureau."

"I would spend the night here. It's my right as an assassin…"

"As a novice assassin you shouldn't even be outside Masyaf. Go. Sleep on the rooftop. If it rains hold your mouth open and drown."

"Your problems with me don't justify your breaking the Creed—"

Malik drops the quill and puts his hand to a hidden blade's hilt. "Finish your sentence," he says murderously. "Finish your sentence, or else obey orders and _get the fuck out of my bureau_."

Altair leaves.

_-i-_

He goes back and forth, does the King of Swords. One day he might be so calm it is a caricature, a frozen anger worse than his heat. He might let Altair sleep with the other assassins in the bureau at night. He might ignore him when the man slips in to tend his injuries, and as the days go by there are many injuries, much blood splattering thinly to the floor. The journeymen help each other bandage wounds and when a hurt is beyond them they go to Malik's well-trained men. But no one ever helps Altar.

On those days Malik can sense Altair watching him, bandages inexpertly wrapped about his arms, ankle swollen from a mistimed jump at the end of a chase. Malik knows if he were to look he'd see Altair rubbing his wrist where his hidden blade should be, watching him. Waiting for…what? An opening? A thawing?

On those days Malik acts as if he is fine.

But then the next day he will be fury personified, snapping at everyone from Raed on down. He is short to the informants, cutting to the journeymen, and once he is so outright rude to an important thief-lord that one of his men gently suggests he leave the information-haggling to others for a while.

Woe to Altair when he appears on those days. He's liable to have things thrown at him. He's liable to be called _traitor, bastard, whoremother's dirty half-breed_. Once he says, "I overheard some men talking of Talal's warehouse. They say it is heavily guarded by Talal's own men. The man himself is a master archer," and in response Malik slams his fist against the desk.

"You tell me nothing new, nothing I need to know. Al Mualim is toying with us both. And what—that cut on your wrist?"

"A guard's lucky strike. It's minor."

"It is a _shame_. You filthy my floors with your mess? Get a rag and _clean_ it."

Altair does as he's told, silently fetching a cloth, then getting to his hands and knees and scrubbing the floor. Bemused journeymen gather around the spectacle. He's pale with anger and embarrassment.

Malik comes around the counter to watch. He waits until the blood is mopped up and then, carefully, steps only inches from Altair's fingers, leaving a dark boot print. The Son of None sits back and glares at him. "Well?" Malik says. "It's still dirty. Back to work, Altair."

Altair throws the rag down and gets to his feet. The other assassins sense a change in the air, a crackling of tension, and make quick exits. Malik smiles openly. Here, at last: his chance.

"I have been out for days," says Altair, "doing my duty. Searching out information on Talal, information you already _know_. I haven't said anything to your little abuses. They don't bother me so much as they seem to entertain you. But this is enough. I'm not a straw dummy for you to practice on. Hinder the Master's orders, if you wish, hinder my work. But do not treat me as a fool."

"Finished?" asks Malik. "Because you aren't finished with the floor."

Altair throws himself at the _Dai._ Malik sideswipes a couple of punches, hand kept still at his side. Altair curses and lunges for him again…

And from a darkened doorway at the room's other end Raed comes forward, grabs the Son of None by the back of his cowl and yanks him backwards. Then he slams the off-balance assassin against the nearest wall and holds him there, arm pressed against his neck. Malik watches Altair scrabble for freedom and then, glowering, drop his arms. Raed only eases off when Malik nods; the disgraced man keeps himself by the wall, one hand at his throat.

Malik walks up to him, under Raed's sharp gaze, and stands very close. Here are the lips that have pressed against his neck, he marvels. The hands that have clutched his shoulders. Here are the hips that have bucked against his own.

"Watch yourself here, murderer," he says softly. "You are as welcome as a Templar in this place, and you have fewer allies. Don't test my hospitality, Altair."

But maybe he has misjudged. For Altair doesn't scowl or look away. Instead he smiles a little, thin-lipped, mean. "You love to call me a murderer," he says. "Well, the punishment for murder is death. Here I am,Malik. You want me dead so badly? Then kill me. Or can bureau leaders do nothing but talk?"

Malik turns away, dismissing him. "Your blood isn't worthy of my blade," he says. "Show him the exit, Raed."

"I know it," snaps Altair, and stalks from the room. The minute he's gone Malik slumps against the counter.

"Lord," says Raed, "perhaps you should not…"

"It doesn't matter," says Malik. "Go home. Go somewhere else."

The other man pauses. "You wish to be alone?"

"Alone? Here? But it's impossible. This place is filled with ghosts. What, don't you see them?"

"I, I'm not sure I…"

"Go and be with your family. I would rather be here with mine."

Malik swears he hears whispers, long after Raed is gone, long after the few journeymen who choose to spend the night have fallen asleep. "Call me a coward, then," he says out loud. And in the empty room he swears someone does.

_-i-_

It helps to focus on his work. Map-making is a task that requires much concentration, and with relief Malik unwraps the fresh parchment and dabs his quill into the ink. Solid lines for country borders, thin for city walls; a light hand with the known oceans, lighter still for the places that as yet only demons have found. He closes his eyes and they lay before him, Jerusalem and Damascus and Arsuf. And more than just them. The world with all its pockets of known and unknown, truth and fable.

He remembers _Dai_ Faraj as he draws, and maybe that's what gives his work such quality. His script is always well-formed and legible, his keys always easy to follow, his distances to perfect scale. Assassins come from other cities for his maps, trusting his explanation of Paris or Rome when he has never left the Levant.

Malik presses the point of his compass to the center of his map, or calculates the position of a building he's never seen in a mental flurry of newly invented math, and what he's really doing is filling in the planet's missing spaces. He uses techniques explained to him in part by Faraj and in part by the books he buys off traveling merchants, cripplingly expensive things written out by students of great scholars from as far away as the Rajput kingdoms, from as long ago as Euclid's ilk. Some cartographers still scoff at the new concepts, all triangles and theorems, and that makes Malik's maps the most accurate for miles in any direction. His is a modern place, as much a house of learning as any _madrassah_.

But he's really just filling in the holes.

The world is large and ugly, and deep with cracks. If he doesn't mark out every inch of every desperate village he will be lost, or else, forgotten. Malik clings to his mapmaking because mapmaking is a kind of fortune-telling: here you will go, and these things you will see. This is how you will prepare for your destiny, when it takes you to where dragons be.

While Altair is in his city Malik draws his maps, or looks at the ones already drawn. Some of them are basic and worn from frequent use. Some of them, buried in the stacks, are older and of rarer places. And some—ones that were swelling with humidity long before Malik was _Dai_ , before Faraj, before Al Mualim's order was a flicker of a thought—some are so old and cryptic they are very dangerous indeed.

Who knows how they came to be in the bureau, the old maps, the maps to places not meant for common travel. Maps to the _Alamin_ , not just the earth but the whole of creation. Maps of the _djinn_ -places, the worlds within worlds. Who knows how any human knew to draw these things. But they are here now, in the heaps, and perhaps one of them is a map of hell and Paradise. Malik would like to find that one, if it exists.

Hell, he thinks wryly, would look a lot like the entryway where Altair sits in a dispersion of pillows, washing his sword. Hell is in his bureau. So he brings out a fresh sheaf of paper, and begins to draw.

_-i-_

"Malik."

It is three weeks since Altair's arrival, nearly four, and Kadar is still dead and Malik's arm still gone, and his thoughts are still nails being driven between his fingers. So the _Dai_ does not look up.

"Come to waste more of my time?"

"I've found Talal," the Son of None announces. "I'm ready to begin my mission."

"That is for me to decide."

There is a pause while Altair visibly reins in his frustration, a vein pulsing in his neck. "Very well," he grits out. "Here's what I know. He traffics in human lives, kidnapping Jerusalem's citizens and selling them into slavery. His base is a warehouse located north of here. As we speak he prepares a caravan for travel, so I'll strike while he inspects his stock. If I can avoid his men, Talal himself will provide little challenge."

"Little challenge? Listen to you! Such arrogance."

"Are we finished? Are you satisfied?"

In disgust Malik shakes his head. "No. But it will have to do." From under his desk he pulls a white feather from a pile of them, and thrusts it at the other man. "I do not want to hear from you again until that feather is soaked with blood," he tells him. "Either Talal's or your own will suffice."

"Very well. But I still need to finalize my plans before I—"

"Rest, prepare, cry in the corner," he says with a dismissive wave. "Do whatever it is you do before a mission. Only make sure you do it quietly."

It isn't so simple, of course; with Altair it never is. Talal hires his own men and pays them well for loyalty. They guard an entire corner of Jerusalem's richest district, dutifully ignored by the poorly trained and poorly paid city guards. They are all expert archers, and even Altair knows better than to think he can survive such a maelstrom. So he lingers in the bureau for days more, plotting, hit by Malik's taunts for every arrow that might miss.

"What is it, Altair?" the _Dai_ sings on the second day. "Come to admit defeat?"

"I'm resting."

"Does this look like Paradise to you? You should be killing Talal, not cowering in my bureau. Go and finish your mission."

On the third: "You're making wonderful progress. Oh, wait! You're not. But don't worry. I'm sure that if you wait here, Talal will simply die of old age."

With the fourth day comes a frazzling heat, and a novice assassin who still sits in the entryway watching his betters work. Snaps Malik, "They say Talal still lives, which begs the question: what are you doing here?"

And finally, on the fifth day, his patience gashed and bleeding: "Devising some brilliant plan, Altair? Just like Solomon's Temple?"

Altair ducks from the mention of that place, turning his gaze from the King of Swords, moving at last for the roof grate. Malik smirks, watching him. Smirks to see him falter under memory's weight.

_-i-_

But the story ends as they always end, in shouting and church bells and guards swarming on the streets. The King of Swords watches from one of the bureau's little windows, frowning past the bars. Raed steps into the darkened room (Malik is keeping the candles low) and, hovering in the doorway, says, " _Dai_?"

"So he lives?" asks Malik. "So he survived?"

Raed is silent. Slowly, Malik nods.

_-i-_

After some hours the bedlam dies down and the Son of None steps into the bureau's main room. Malik greets him with a cheerful, "Altair! Wonderful to see you return to us. And how fared the mission?"

"The deed is done," he says, and shows him the bloodied feather. "Talal is dead."

"Oh," says Malik, "I know, I know, I know. In fact…" and he smacks the air, coming an inch from Altair's face. "In fact," he bellows, "the _entire city_ knows! Have you forgotten the meaning of subtlety?"

"A skilled assassin ensures his work is noticed by the many."

" _No_. A _skilled_ assassin maintains control over his environment."

"We can argue the details all you'd like, Malik," Altair huffs. "But the fact remains, I've accomplished the task set for me by Al Mualim."

"Go, then. Return to the old man. Let us see with whom he sides."

But it is a tired argument, oh, it is a tired _year_. Al Mualim will favor Altair. He will give the novice a higher rank, return him a weapon or two. Before long everything will be as it was.

And Altair has the gall to sound _sympathetic_ when he says, "You and I are on the same side."

Malik can hardly look at him. Malik must add these details to his map of hell.

Altair leaves the bureau then, leaves Jerusalem, rides for home. Leaves behind ruins new and old. The _Dai_ of Jerusalem draws his maps and tends to his duties. The bureau fills with ghosts.


	5. Chapter 3

**_The Meeting_ **

'"Smell the jasmine,'" Malik hums. '"Remember to forget me."'

In Al Masyaf there is a garden. It sits perched on the edge of a steep cliff: below it is a river and beyond are endless mountains. It's lovely, lush with flowering plants and grass that never dies for too clear a sky. There are tiled fountains and tiled bowers thick with creeping vines. There are shaded spots kept cool regardless of season. The breezes sometimes bring the scent of flowers, sometimes the murmur of voices. There are women in the garden, and they know who wants their company and who does not, and they are very lovely too.

In the garden there is a gravestone.

Not a grave, no, not without a body. But a stone nevertheless, with name and date, a simple thing nestled in a thicket at the garden's far end, past where most visitors go. Not that there are very many visitors, because few people are allowed past the gates into this little slice of Paradise. Usually when Malik visits, and he visits as often as work allows him which is less and less these days, he's alone but for the women, who smile kindly. Who keep to their own business.

It's as he requested. To sit in front of the stone and talk as though it were listening, to pass on daily gossip or sing in a voice off-key though not unpleasant, would be impossible under watching eyes. It would strike others as too silly, too sentimental, for a fierce assassin primed to rule the Brotherhood.

Malik is sometimes ashamed of himself. Others can move on from loss, yet it is destined to be his shroud.

But it isn't wholly bad. It can't be, in such a place. Malik wonders how much he'd already figured out, when he requested of Al Mualim that a marker be placed here. He'd been delirious, ignoring that assassins don't usually warrant graves of their own in an Order that worships the whole, but still, a part of him must have known his self-exile wouldn't be forever. Masyaf would come to claim him again.

Masyaf will never again feel like home, except for in the garden. He can come here and sit, maybe prune the surrounding bushes a bit, then pull off his cowl and shrug off his _Dai's_ robes and talk. About Altair's latest tantrums, or a novice that hid from Instructor Rauf's ring, or how the local brothel has had its windows broken yet again.

About how uneasy he's made by the Apple of Eden. Altair won't listen and Malik won't betray him by fretting in front of others, so this is his compromise. The gravestone can't spread his fears.

Today the sky is so clear it reaches past blue for purple dusk. Today the jasmine is in bloom and the wind carries no voices. Today he talks of songs instead.

'"Brother, just don't forget me'…I don't remember the last verse," he says, keeping his voice low. Tazim is sleeping on a blanket after a loud, cranky night; the outdoors seems to calm him, so Malik put work aside to watch him out here, to the wet nurse's relief. "It's that same wandering singer. Every time I visit Jerusalem he has a new song picked out. Next time I return I'll have to ask him how this one ends."

He reaches out, brushes a fallen leaf off the stone. "He's not bad with the _oud_ , either. That's one thing Jerusalem never lacks. Music."

A flower floats down and lands neatly on Tazim's face. The baby sneezes and stirs awake. Malik smiles and brushes off the blossom, but his son grabs for it and starts when his chubby fingers rip it in two. "Bah!" he says with surprise.

"You have to be careful with things so fragile," Malik tells him. "Here, look." He plucks another blossom free from a nearby bush and props it in Tazim's hand. "See? Gently."

Tazim drops the flower, rolls himself onto his stomach and gurgles with delight at his new trick. "Abaaa," he says, and grabs for blades of grass.

"You have a real hatred for plants, don't you?" Malik picks him up, sits him on his lap. "If I can interrupt your path of destruction…" He puts his hand to Tazim's back to keep him steady and says, "I want you to meet someone."

Tazim squirms. "Bababa."

"Not Baba. ' _Am_. This is your uncle. ' _Am_ Kadar. Can you say it?"

"Baba!"

Malik chuckles. "Sorry, Brother," he says to himself. "He'll get it."

He puts his son down and lets him go back to attacking grass. To the gravestone he says, speaking in more formal tones, "I haven't visited much. It's been very busy lately, worse than ever…Altair won't say so but he's worried about the Mongol attacks. We both know what it sounds as though they're looking for. But half the time he won't focus on our defenses, or on the fact that Abbas is due back any day, no, he's too distracted by fool's gold."

Malik sighs. "I complain about him a lot," he says. "I make it sound as if he were a terrible leader. But he isn't, Kadar. He's the best Master this Brotherhood has ever had. It's amazing the things he's done. We have assassins in cities Al Mualim never heard of, and they're wielding weapons the enemy's never seen. You'd be awestruck to see him. You really would."

The headstone doesn't answer. Malik feels a tad foolish. A chipped stone mounted over an empty grave. Why does it give him comfort?

"I don't know why I visit at all, actually. ' _Am_ Kadar. Pathetic."

He's pulling out grass himself now, to keep his hand busy. "It's not that you died. People die. And it's not that you died young…you didn't really, not compared to others. Just last week we buried a journeyman two years younger, and _he_ didn't get his own stone. So why do I need such an extravagance?"

The grass falls from between his fingers, leaving thin traces of dirt. "It's not just that you died," Malik says. "It's that I promised." He works his words past a closing throat. "If there is an afterlife, then have you met Father?" he asks. "Is he furious with me?" But he sounds young and stupid. When has there ever been an afterlife?

"Ahhh," says Tazim suddenly, eyes wide. He's found an ant.

Malik distracts himself making sure the baby doesn't eat any insects. It becomes possible again for him to smile. "A shame you'll never meet him for real, Kadar. I think you'd like your _ibn akh_. You could teach him how to climb walls and only fall half the time. Although," he admits, "I'm not one to mock these days. Sometimes my joints are starting to feel stiff."

" _Dai_ Malik?"

He almost hears it in Kadar's voice, almost responds to the call as he might have done years ago, with a warm smile dipped about the edges in brotherly concern. But Kadar never called him _Dai_. So he's able to save face in time.

"Yes?"

It's a journeyman standing there, nervous in a place usually banned, glancing awkwardly at the uncovered women. "The Master has asked for you," he says. "Abbas has reached the bottom of the village. The Master wants you there to receive him."

Malik nods. He climbs to his feet, and scoops up squirming Tazim with a practiced motion. Steadying him against his body he says, "I want you on your best behavior, understand? No fussing. The A-Sayf family should look every bit as kingly as Altair's."

"Baba," says Tazim clearly, and rests his head against his father's chest. Malik's eyes soften.

"Well," he shrugs. "If nothing else I'll aim you at Abbas when you spit up."

He starts to turn back to Kadar's gravestone, but the journeyman is still there. Instead he spares it a glance. The journeyman says, "Were you busy with something? The Master said I should interrupt you if you were, but…"

"I wasn't," says Malik. "Just indulging in foolishness in my old age."

_-i-_

Altair receives Abbas in the same room he receives squabbling peasants. He sits in his heavy chair, with a frown bearing more impatience than malice. At his left shoulder stands Darim, stiff-straight with his arms clasped behind his back. He seems to hold every breath as long as he can, puffing out his chest. Earlier Altair noticed his boots were scuffed and scolded him; appearances are everything, something his heir must realize. But Darim had gone sulking to change boots, and now that he is where and as he should be Altair ignores him.

(And in the far corner, a ghost. But the ghost is keeping quiet and Altair ignores him, too.)

He taps one finger against the chair's armrest. A journeyman has gone to fetch Malik, under Master's orders. They have been waiting for some minutes, and they'll be waiting for minutes more.

As Altair has designed it.

Abbas kneels before him, head tilted towards the floor. He's changed since Altair saw him last, on the outside from stress and life in desolate villages. But Altair suspects the real damage happened the minute Abbas touched the Apple. It is not kind to those it disdains, that he knows. Who knows what wretches it shoved before the man's confounded eyes, as its impossible heat scorched his fingers?

Altair flicks his eyes over Abbas again, without changing expression. The man's dark beard is flicked with grey now. He still wears his journeyman greys, and it's delicious to see someone who once called Altair _half-breed_ reduced to such an insult of a post. Guard this border, yes, guard this forgotten border filled with shepherds and sheep shit! While the rest of us tend to the Templars. While the one of us takes control.

And then come back, when we decide you're harmless. When age has taken the bite from your curses and shame the strength from your sword arm, come back and bow before us. The Brotherhood cannot be shaken by the likes of you.

Abbas has always been tall, well-built, but he looks diminished in the Grandmaster's eyes. He also looks grey, the dull grey of unimportant background clutter, when Altair uses his eagle's sight, turning it on and off with a blink. Not that it's infallible. Al Mualim was blue, once, and infuriatingly Malik remains a cryptic gold. Eagle's Vision is tainted by emotion, Altair has decided, and grows less accurate the farther in the future the treachery lies. One day he must demand cures for such problems from the Apple.

Still, Abbas is not red today. Today he is grey nothing.

The man behind him, now, he is puzzling. He stands a step or two behind crouching Abbas, shoulders bent in a respectful sort of half-bow. He's lightly bearded, the skin underneath red with irritation. His eyes are the same light brown as Altair's own, his coloring a shade darker. He too is outlined in grey.

He has not introduced himself, because Altair has not yet bothered asking him to. His manner of dress is strange: white, baggy _salvar_ trousers and a multicolored vest cinched at the waist with a fat belt, in the fashion of the Seljuk Turks. But underneath the vest he wears a tunic common with Arab peasants, which is too long for the vest and has been bunched to fit. And he'd be the only Turk Altair has ever dealt with who walks around bare-headed.

"I asked for Abbas alone," Altair says to the stranger, prompted to speech by curiosity. "But he comes with a retinue. Is your name Abbas as well?"

"Your pardon, sir, but it is not." The stranger's voice is high, his accent as hard to place as his clothing, as though he was created out of bits of others' cultures. But then, Kapısuyu was once a port, and its faded borders are fluid. Perhaps this is not so unusual.

"My parents were merchants who traded throughout Anatolia," he continues, "but I have given up that life. I've settled in St. Symeon, and in fact it was during a trip to the markets in Kapısuyu that I first met Abbas and he—"

"I didn't ask you about your parents or your address," Altair interrupts. "I asked you your name."

The man grins, uneasy maybe, and when he does a scar under his chin is brought to sight. "Ali."

Altair gestures impatiently. "Son of?"

"Oh, Ali Ibn Berkant. Yes."

(The ghost stirs, damn the hateful thing. But what it says this time is less cutting remark than idle nonsense: "Ali. Huh. That's a good name.")

What it is, is unusual: Arab and Turk both. But understandable if he comes from trader stock. Altair looks at him through Eagle's Vision again and sees nothing of importance. Only another figure shrunk into the background, colored in the way of those who do not matter.

Abbas is still kneeling before him. Altair considers letting him stand. Then the door opens.

Malik walks in, holding his child. He steps past Abbas and takes his place at Altair's right shoulder, ever the loyal second, even if Altair sometimes thinks it's a game the _Dai_ is playing. Malik is not one to drop his grudges. Couldn't his mercy be just another delusion…?

(The ghost says, "D'you ever wonder if my brother would leave you if you stopped having sex with him? You two are both so strange." No one hears but Altair, of course, and even he is able to keep from glancing at the far corner for more than a second before turning his eyes to better views.)

Abbas has tensed his shoulders and Malik is giving Altair a bemused look he knows quite well: one that reads, _stop staring at me, novice_. For that is what he was doing. Malik can call him dense all he'd like but Altair is smart enough to recognize the fixation.

"Safety and peace," he says, and only after Malik frowns and breaks off eye contact does he smirk and turn away. Many things in life have changed, but making Malik squirm will always be a pleasure. The man is so cautious about some things, whereas Altair…

Altair would like very much to bend him over right here, in front of Abbas and Ali Ibn Berkant and every guard in Masyaf. Wouldn't that be thrilling? Fucking him, bringing him to a loud and messy orgasm in front of a crowd of horrified faces, proof that Altair is the _only_ one worthy of Malik because Altair is the _only_ one who understands—

But according to some people that wouldn't be wise. And there's still the ghost crouching nearby. So he contents himself with knowing that in one small but crucial way Malik's easy to fluster: he's probably already hard underneath all those robes.

Feeling quite as though he's been crowned sultan, Altair finally motions for Abbas to stand. The man does so quickly, with relief, his expression easy to read. Something else that hasn't changed.

For when he looks at Altair his jealousy is plain. Here sits the Grandmaster of the Brotherhood, with his heir at one side and Malik at the other. How powerful he must be! It is, muses the Master, a sight enough to make anyone hard.

"Abbas," he says, damn near gracious. "And how was your stay on our northern border?"

"I did as my lord commanded," answers Abbas. He sounds drained. "I established a new bureau, as I wrote to inform you."

"Did you?"

"During the first year. I sent you pigeons."

" _Did_ you." A slight cough from Malik tells Altair he's starting to sound overly glib. "If you sent them than I must have read them," he allows. "But we have been very busy here."

"I see that. The village, ah, it looks to have grown since I left."

"We're planning to extend the gates. People throughout the region know that Al Masyaf means safety. And your Kapısuyu bureau? How does it fare today?"

Abbas stares at him. "Five assassins," he says. "Local recruits."

"Five?" Altair forgets the warning cough. What's the point in pretending amity? He's hated Abbas since childhood. " _Five_ assassins. I am not impressed."

(Grins the ghost, "You're never impressed. Better than everyone, right? In both title and ability!")

Altair digs his nails into the armrest. Darim looks perplexed, Malik exasperated, the Turk stranger thoughtful. Abbas outright glowers.

"I did my work. Maybe Kapısuyu isn't as busy as Damascus or Jerusalem but it's still a border. Don't ignore its people because they are pious peasants and not flashy atheists like some."

"I've no quarrel with the peasants. I asked you to explain how you dealt with them."

"I sent you detailed reports. Frequently."

"The pigeons must have gotten lost."

"A shame I wasn't sent to Jerusalem, eh? They know the way back from there well enough!"

"Many things happen in Jerusalem."

"Many things," spits Abbas, "and many sins also—"

Altair is on his feet at that but Malik interrupts before Abbas can insinuate his face into the Master's fist. "You both sound like children," he says calmly. "Abbas, need I remind you to mind your tone? You were banished for such conceit. Kapısuyu cannot be so interesting that you are in a hurry to return."

"…No. Forgive me," Abbas grinds out.

Malik continues, " _I_ read your reports, Abbas, in the Grandmaster's stead. Anatolia is a crucial region. You did well."

"Thank you."

"Your old guard post is taken but the Grandmaster will find you another one. Until then, you might work with Rauf in training the novices. We need instructors with an understanding of how bureaus are run."

"A good idea. I'll do that," Abbas agrees, trying for friendly. Altair, sitting again, his head on his fist, watches the charade with barely-concealed disgust. As if those two were ever such great friends!

"Malik, actually…"

"What is it?"

"Nothing, only, that child you're holding is your…?"

"My son. Tazim."

" _Mashallah!_ Good, yes, it's good to have a son to carry your name." Like a man wanting to die, Abbas glances towards Malik's missing arm. "I, ah, didn't realize you would…get married."

"Indeed, I haven't," says Malik without much inflection.

("I really wanted to get married," says the ghost, picking at its grey sleeves. "There was this village girl who had the best smile. Bet it's nice, huh, Altair? Getting married? If even you ended up with a wife.")

Abbas twitches an eyebrow. "But your son must have a mother."

"So he must. I never had the chance to know her." Malik still sounds calm, almost cheerful, and Altair is having a hard time keeping the grin from his face. People hear of the _Dai's_ legendary temper and fear his rages, but Altair has had the full front of that rage brought against him. It isn't Malik's shouting that he dreads.

"I am raising Tazim on my own," Malik tells Abbas in that same cheerful tone, and only Altair recognizes the danger.

Abbas moves on, fortunately for his neck. "And this is your son?" he asks Altair, who grunts.

Malik coughs again. Only louder.

Altair says, "This is Darim. My eldest."

Darim nods. "Safety and peace."

"And with you." Abbas spares him a quick look. "Altair—"

"Grandmaster."

"Grandmaster, I heard you have two sons."

"Sef and his mother are returning from Acre."

"I see. His mother, she's…well, to put it plainly I heard that she was a Templar. But that must be false rumor."

"Maria was a Templar. Now she is an assassin."

"Oh. And…you thought that was wise. To marry her."

("Doesn't he ask such silly questions? You're always very wise.")

"I wanted her to be here for your arrival," says Altair, disregarding them both, "but her work in Acre was too important. She wasn't able to leave early."

"Of course," Abbas murmurs, clearly vexed.

Malik looks past him, at the stranger. "Who is this?" he asks, and Ali Ibn Berkant hastens to bow his head of frizzy hair a second time. Altair can see Malik trying to make sense of the outlandish outfit.

"This is Ali," says Abbas, freshly emboldened. "He was one of my first recruits, and he's very talented. I thought it would be best to bring him to Masyaf for training."

"Abbas told me of the Brotherhood and I was intrigued," says Ali. "I'd met him several times in the markets but never knew what his robes symbolized. I'm nowhere near his skill level, of course, nor yours, but it would be an honor to truly join the Order. To fight for this cause."

("It's a good cause!" The ghost beams. "Better be careful, Grandmaster," it sings. "Better watch your admirers well.")

Malik looks at Altair, who shrugs. "We always welcome new Brothers," he says. "You'll have to learn the Creed and its tenants, follow our rules, dress as one of us. And you'll owe your allegiance to the Grandmaster. Whatever orders he gives, you must follow."

"Of course. Abbas has taught me a lot already. He is a fine teacher."

"Go with him to the training ring, then. Rauf can give you rank once he sees your swordwork."

"I look forward to it. Abbas has spoken of your mission with such passion, it was hard not to—"

"It's easy to speak of the Creed," says Altair, "but harder to live it. We'll see how flowery your praise is after a month of training."

"I understand, I do. But Abbas has made a strong convert out of me. You must be proud of him. He worked very hard."

Altair looks from the newcomer's eager face to Abbas's smug one and is consumed by boredom. His palms itch. Abbas works hard? Abbas begs forgiveness? What a _chore_ it is to care. There are countless weapons to build, countless warnings to be given—the Apple, the Order's _real_ work, is waiting. The ghost nods.

Darim says, "Father?" and he notices that everyone is looking at him.

"Fine," he says, too loud, and stands a second time. "Go and train. I have work to do elsewhere."

"You have a meeting of the local village elders," Malik cuts in. "An hour from now, as I reminded you yesterday—"

"Go in my stead."

"Altair, I am not the Grandmaster."

"You have more patience for coddling tribesmen. So you handle it."

Malik thins his lip into a tight smile. "We can discuss this in private," he suggests.

"There's nothing to discuss." Altair waves his hand at the rest of them, impatient. "You all have other things to do. Do them."

Abbas hesitates a minute at the abrupt dismissal, then lowers himself in a bow for as long as he can stand it, which is half a second. Ali bows longer and with more fluster. Darim says, "Goodbye, Father," and waits for a response. Altair, though, is watching the corner of the room again. Instead it's the _Dai_ who nods at him, holds out Tazim and asks Darim to take him to the wet nurse. Finally the Master's son must stiffen his shoulders and follow the other two out of the room.

The door closes. Altair takes a step towards his right-hand man.

Malik says, "I'll say nothing of how you treat your son."

"Good, don't."

"But you cannot pawn off all your unwanted tasks on me. I have my own. And as the Master of the Brotherhood it is _your_ duty to attend these councils. They're important, Altair! Where would we be without the locals' support?"

"Just as we are," he answers. "We are strong enough for that."

"Don't be so proud. They're expecting you, not me. You know how closely these men guard their honor, why risk offending it by sending the wrong man?"

"You're my second in command," he says. "Whatever you decide has my approval. If you need me to play nursemaid while you bicker with villagers then you aren't fit for the role."

Malik bristles. "You, a nursemaid? You can't even remember your own tasks."

"Because I'm busy. There is a lot to do, as you keep reminding me."

"There is a lot to do, and you aren't doing any of it," Malik says icily. "You don't attend meetings. You don't follow up with informers. You don't _eat_ or _sleep_. You sit in this dungeon all day and night looking into that goddamn ball."

Altair widens his eyes. "I haven't mentioned the Apple once today."

("You shouldn't lie so much, Grandmaster.")

"Novice, you might have everyone else fooled into thinking you're a mysterious demigod, but I'm not so blind."

"Then this is a pointless argument." He takes another step forward. "A waste of time."

"What exactly would you like me to say?" Malik asks, his eyes flashing.

Altair smirks. "Nothing," he says, and then he is on him, pushing him hard so that his back hits the wall. He keeps Malik there with one arm across his chest, and shoves his free hand under the man's robes, pulling the fabric off so hard something tears, ignoring Malik's hissed protests. He stops only after he finds what he's searching for and squeezes. Malik chokes mid-curse and arches back.

Altair snickers. "I knew it."

"Not, _nh_ , here, Altair, you idiot. Anyone could walk in-!"

"Let them." Altair does not look behind him. The ghost in the corner is silent, giving him hope that perhaps it's left.

"Do you want a rope around your neck? Do you want to— _damn it_ —swing?"

"Name one person in the entire Levant who could overpower the two of us. Name one person in the whole world."

But Malik is beyond naming much of anything. He bucks in Altair's grip, and as ever he demands as much as Altair is capable of giving, if not more. As ever it is a contest of wills, and to lose it is to win.

Malik is grabbing him now, and rubbing against him. Their robes are both askew. It's hard to say who's closer, or whose breath is more ragged. "Did you see him?" Altair says in a voice gone husky with need. "Did you see-?"

"See who?"

"Abbas."

"Of…course I did."

"How jealous he was. Of me, of you."

"Oh," says Malik, "is that why you're in heat?" And with a wicked half-smile he tightens his fingers and sends the Son of None right over the edge. Altair starts to pull away but Malik's grip is unbreakable. "Finish what you started, Master," he orders. And the Master, exultant, does.

_-i-_

It is late, and Al Masyaf is quiet. A few scholars walk to the Master's library, a few novices are being put through night-training by their instructors. A few villagers stir in the houses at the foot of the hill.

Abbas stands guard at the gate.

Behind him is the fortress, ahead the village proper. He is surrounded by what was taken from him, in the same spot. As though he was never gone. As though nothing has changed.

But Altair Ibn La'ahad has changed everything.

Abbas touches the sword strapped to his waist. He'd carried it the day Altair overthrew Al Mualim. The day their Master burned. And no one said anything. There were murmurs of discontent, there was anger, certainly no one tried to stop Abbas from doing what he did that day. But no one stood beside him, either. And no one else was blamed.

"I am not alone," he says to the night air. "You are with me, God. When I was a child You led me here. You gave me respect."

He clenches his hand against the sword's hilt. "But You gave Altair more. He has scorned You all his life, but You gave him talent and adoration and strength. He made me leave, he…he kept the Apple…! Damn him, what was I meant to do in Kapısuyu? What was I—"

He stops at the sound of footsteps behind him. Turning, he sees Ali, still dressed as an eccentric peasant-traveler, though he holds the red sash of the Order in his hands. Idly he winds it around his wrists, saying, " _Masah al khair._ A fine evening for a new beginning."

Abbas waits as long as he can before saying: "So you have met him. The great Son of None, Grandmaster of the Order."

"I have."

"And what did you think?" Abbas says bitterly, "Isn't he magnificent? Fearsome? Don't you want to grovel at his feet?"

"What do I think?" Ali cocks his head, unraveling the cloth off his hands. He holds it to the weak torchlight and studies the silk's patterns, smiling. "I think you're the man who interests me, not him. I suppose he is unique…did you notice how he kept looking to an empty corner?"

"Was he?"

"Mm. I think this Order is very strong, and it could get stronger yet."

" _Inshallah_ ," Abbas manages.

"And also," Ali says, lowering his voice, turning to smile, "I think you should introduce me to the rest of your Brothers."

It is late. Al Masyaf is very quiet. And the guard at the gate nods his head.


	6. Chapter 4

_**Scar and Strength and Shadow** _

_The Apple says: They are coming._

_Altair is unsurprised to find himself in this dream, or this waking delusion. Whichever. They are the same thing, ultimately, and they are more frequent by the hour. "Who is coming?" he asks._

_The Apple answers: The ones who will send you fleeing from what you have built like a thief from the marketplace._

_Altair says, "There is no such man."_

_The Apple says: But there are such men._

_The Apple says: They are coming. No! They are already here._

Altair opens his eyes, and straightens in his seat. He takes in the room before him, the books and stone stairs and sunlight streaming off the main hall. His desk here is kept clean, because the Grandmaster isn't a white-lined scholar dipping his beard into the books. He keeps his searching secret.

Even so.

He was dreaming of the Apple again: not a pure dream because he wasn't sleeping, would never sleep in public, but a dream of some other kind. A snatch of memory from the last time he held the Piece of Eden. Lately it has only had this one thing to tell him, whether he holds the orb or not.

"You should let Malik know," says Kadar, sitting on the lip of the massive window, swinging his feet.

Altair looks to his left, where a guard stands, and says, "Bring me every scroll you can find on the Mongols. And do it fast."

_-i-_

Maria Thorpe's arrival is heralded by rain clouds, a boiling scrum of them set low over the village. It's early in the season for rain, and the clouds promise cooler temperatures but also an unprepared-for dousing that sets the farmers worrying. Malik wonders, and frowns at himself for wondering, if their timing isn't some sort of sign.

When he receives word that she's in the main hall, he puts down his quill and fetches his son, and they go to greet her and Sef.

He sees her before she sees him, so caught up is she in a conversation with her husband. Maria looks travel-worn, overheated in the European-style riding getup she insists on wearing, down to the chain mail usually only seen on Templars. Remnants of her other life. Her skin is equally foreign, burned from the sun, but somehow it matches the highlights in her hair, which she keeps cropped at a sensible man's length. Maria is nothing like any woman Altair had ever seen before; Malik has never wondered why he loves her.

Although the words 'love' and 'Altair' don't really belong in the same thought. Presumably there is some word for Altair's feelings towards his wife, just as there is some word for his feelings towards his sons and his second-in-command. What that word is, though, is something other than _love_. Malik loved Kadar, and it was that simple, and there were no asterisks hanging after the word.

Regardless. Altair cares deeply for Maria, and it's obvious why. With one woman he both can rile the peasantry and have an unruly duel. With one woman he can curse and plot and sneer, just as he would with any man. Maria, practical Maria, who wears European armor because she will never fit in regardless, and so why shouldn't she be comfortable and dress as she likes?

Determined Maria, who carries her own type of loyalty. Has she any inkling at all…?

Tazim babbles, and Sef, standing off to one side with his older brother, spots Malik first. "Hello!" he says brightly. "Safety and peace! Is that the baby Mother told me you got?"

Malik's chest tightens at Sef's chatter. In looks he is nothing like that other younger brother, as stout as Kadar was lean, as fastidiously dressed as Kadar was a walking flurry of torn robes and stains. But Sef is still a child. He's traveled with his mother for a year, and must have seen much during it, yet he knows so little of the world.

Darim frowns and crosses his arms. _If it were my brother back from a journey, I would hold him_ , Malik thinks. _If it were my brother I would never have let him leave._

Here they stand before him, then, the La'Ahad family. Malik dips his head.

"Safety and peace," he says. "I trust this year has treated you two well."

"More than well," says Maria with satisfaction, in fluent but accented Arabic. It will never not be strange to hear a woman address him so directly, though strange is not always bad. Altair already wears his veil; at least Malik can look _one_ of them in the eyes.

"Acre will stay loyal," she continues, "and so will fifty hamlets between it and here. I've made sure of it."

"Acre is no easy city to work in. I'm impressed."

"There were slavers," says Sef, "and arms dealers, and a lot of drug peddlers, but Mother told them all to—"

"Sef," says Altair, and gives Darim a look that says quite clearly, _Take your brother elsewhere_.

Darim does so, dragging Sef off down the hall, and as he passes Malik can hear him scolding, "If you kept your _mouth_ shut they would've let us stay."

"I'm not awed by Acre, really," says Maria, and tosses her head. "For a city ruled by warlords it was easy to manage."

"Again, I'm impressed," says Malik. "The Templars, the Saracens, I can never keep track of who supposedly controls it when."

Maria shrugs. "It makes no difference. Men are men. Either they're taken by a strong handshake and a helmet, or they're distracted by their dicks."

"I can see you playing the mysterious knight. Not so much the temptress."

"Who said anything about playing?" she shoots back, and smiles at him. He tries to read the emotion in it and isn't sure what he sees. Has he ever, in all these years, had a conversation with Maria that lasted longer than five minutes?

Altair says, "Acre is an important city. I did well to send you there."

"I did well to send myself there, thank you. It was my idea to go."

"Whichever." Altair looks at Malik, and his expression Malik can easily understand. He might as well be a puppy wagging his tail, hoping for a pat on the head.

('Altair' and 'puppy' are also words that don't fit together, but Malik figures he's allowed _some_ amusement in life.)

Altair is still talking, telling Maria of new novices and new bureau leaders and new emissaries, all of which require her input. That she is a woman, and a former Templar, and that maybe not all of those novices and bureau leaders and emissaries want anything to do with her, never crosses his mind. That she needs to handle these people because he is too busy with his Apple and Malik too overworked to find the time, he neglects to mention. Maria must know _some_ thing of the Piece of Eden, Robert de Sablé being her former leader, but not the truth of what it does. Malik doubts Altair has told her much.

Altair spins his lists of orders and Maria begins to look disgruntled. He hasn't once reacted as normal humans might to the arrival of sons and wives after a long absence; perhaps Malik missed the romance, but he doubts it.

Finally Malik interrupts. "It can all wait until tomorrow," he says, ignoring Altair's incredulous glare. "The trip from Acre is long. You and Sef must both be tired." A moment's consideration, and then he adds: "I'll introduce you to some of the new faces tomorrow, if you'd like. The ones who might prove…difficult."

Maria looks at him, grateful, but not fully. She wears something else on her face, mixed in with the respect due one fighter towards another. Malik wishes he had the time to parse through this woman once and for all. Oughtn't he hate her? She rode with de Sablé once. She celebrated the man's successes. She praised him for his slaughter.

"Why wait until tomorrow? I'm not tired, we can start now. Only let me make sure Sef is settled in."

"Darim must be happy that he's home."

"They're brothers," Maria says with a lift of her trim shoulders. "They fight. As long as one doesn't stab the other."

Malik smiles, lets the comment pass. "It really won't hurt to wait until tomorrow to get to work. The emissaries will keep a night."

"Are any of them actually important? The Order doesn't have time to waste on hangers-on. If they aren't loyal to our cause and don't have anything to offer, we shouldn't give them the honor of a meeting." Maria, in switching sides, brought with her the sometimes-startling vehemence of a convert. She also brought the inborn snobbery of a nobleman's daughter. Altair has somehow found the one woman in the world who thinks as little of, and tries as hard to save, the illiterate peasants as he does himself.

"Vetted thoroughly," Malik promises. "By Darim for experience, and then by myself."

"Darim did a bearable job," says Altair.

"I'm sure Darim did as decent a job as his father would have done." Maria flicks her enigmatic smile at Malik again. "But that might not be saying much. How crucial it is that the Order has Malik here." She looks at Tazim. "Hopefully his new turn as father won't be too distracting."

"It won't be," Altair says.

"He's adorable, Malik. He looks very happy."

"Your wife's an expect flatterer," says Malik. "No wonder she did so well in Acre."

"There, we've said our compliments." Maria stirs in her armor. "Back to running the Brotherhood. These new novices, are any of them worth noting?"

"Not particularly. Unless you count your husband."

Maria has the good grace to smile.

_-i-_

The men are training in a side courtyard, two of them, swarthy types with scars burnt into their skin. They'd be mercenaries if not assassins, mercenaries or bandits or soldiers, if there is a difference between the three—but they are assassins, and skilled ones, religious in that half-hearted way that even Altair has been unable to stamp out. Between the two of them they have killed twenty men and injured a score more. Frightened countless. They serve Altair as they served Al Mualim.

Their dedication is not a promise. The stock they put in honor is not small. They are what the Assassin's Order is made out of, these two men. They are its past and present. To look at them is to see the future, as well.

Ali Ibn Berkant approaches the two wearing his brightest smile. Abbas trails after, nonplussed. Ali is so _friendly_! He's introduced himself to half the Brotherhood already, from _Rafiks_ gone creaky in the mind with age to novices who don't know how to hold swords. Half of both groups will be death within five years. Why bother?

" _Salaam_ , Brothers," chirps Ali, heedless of the interruption. "Safety and peace."

The two men stop sparring, stare at him, at his mismatched outfit and strange hair. "Safety and peace," says one of them. "Who are you?"

"A new convert! Thanks to Abbas here, my teacher."

Abbas turns his head towards the men, not very willingly. He doesn't know them, but he's sure they know his sullied name.

Fortunately, all that is said in response is, "Indeed?"

"Oh yes! But to be explained the Order in some dusty nowhere is nothing like to be here, in the heart of it. Such an organization! Every person with his role."

"And yours is...?"

"I guess you'd call me a novice," laughs Ali. "You'll see me training with the ten-year-olds."

The expression on the faces of both men suggests otherwise. Why should they watch him at all? Abbas loathes being condescended to, wonders if Ali isn't the _slightest_ bit dim, and is about to suggest that they move on when Ibn Berkant says, "But you two looked very impressive. Master Altair must heap praise on your shoulders."

Neither man says anything, at first. Then the one of them lifts his shoulders in something a little more aggressive than a shrug. "I've never spoken with the Master myself."

"Nor have I," adds the other.

"But he must mention you to others," Ali insists. "There must be rumors, like, oh, 'This one accomplished his mission without flaws,' and, 'If you send him you know the job will be done.' I can tell from your swordwork that you are both accomplished. And if I have the uniform correct, high-ranked, right?"

"Assassins don't care for rank," says one of the men. "Nor praise. And the Master isn't one for gushing."

"Still," says Ali. "If I were Master I would want my men to know I was watching. A Brotherhood is nothing without Brothers, right?" He laughs, merry. The assassins exchange glances.

Abbas is confused, but his confusion is a thin layer under which other, more dangerous, emotions are stirring. He knows that if he were to slip his fingers under the lip of his uncertainty and glance beneath, he would see something...would see Ali smiling as he's smiled to everyone they've met from novice to _Rafik_ , would hear Ali gushing as he's gushed to strong fighters ("Oh! The Master must be proud of you. No? He's never said?") and encouraging as he's encouraged the new ones ("Does the Master really yell at the novices the way he yells at _Dais_? But you're so young! He can't expect so much of you yet. The Master is a reasonable man, I'm sure.")

Abbas's confusion is a gauze bandage, wrapped around darker things. Nameless suspicions. He watches Ali sculpt his face into grin or gasp and wonders all the while.

"I'll stop bothering you," says Ali to the two other assassins. "I shouldn't keep Abbas standing out in the sun doing nothing."

"From what I hear that's all he's done for years," mutters one of them. Color rushes to Abbas's face. What do these men know of _nothing_? Would either of them have put up with what he's survived? No, they'd turn back into mercenary-soldiers and be done with it, the Order and its capriciousness, the Order that demands and doesn't offer.

Abbas survived. Abbas is _loyal_. Abbas believes in the Brotherhood, because the Brotherhood told him he wasn't worthless, no matter what his father or his father's wives said. Because throughout the world there are only either the kingdoms of murderous Christians or the sultanates of men who insult Islam, pretending to be Allah's next Prophet while cutting out the tongues of old _imams_ , shutting the cream of Islam's youth in secret prisons for their godly rabble-rousing. Abbas believes in the Brotherhood because it is a third option, and though it ignores God it doesn't demand that _he_ ignore God.

Abbas believes in the Brotherhood, even when it embraces Altair, who for all his _changes_ is still a self-centered prick. The Order is all Abbas has.

So what do these assassins know? Not a thing. And yet before he might tell them that, Ali is speaking, and what Ali says is enough to give all three of them pause, the assassins and Abbas both:

"I always thought the Brotherhood believes in redemption," he says, mildly. "That's what Abbas said, what I loved. The beauty of it. Even the Master himself needed that. He isn't perfect either, is he? People have doubted his allegiances before."

No one says anything.

Ali continues, "The beauty of the Brotherhood is that even a man called a traitor can be made Master. Although I guess he made himself Master. I'm sure it's the same thing."

The four of them are quiet, considering it, in the heat that is trapped and writhing under the thickening clouds.

_-i-_

Maria is…awkward, with the other assassins. Malik studies her as he takes her about Masyaf, early in the morning, showing her the changes just as someone (Altair?) must have first shown her the Order when she went from prisoner to confidant. She acknowledges everyone well enough. She brushes off whatever doubts they give her over her sex, religion, origin, allegiances, she shrugs her shoulders in a rippling motion and lets their concerns fall.

But Malik can tell she isn't comfortable. Something in the way she stomps about, mashing her heels, an exaggerated man's strut aped from the soldiers she's spent her life around. Something in the way she never smiles.

He leads her past the inner gates of the fortress, pointing out the new fortifications. Maria nods. He takes her as far as the village gates, noting where the wood beams have been replaced and where the guard increased. A needful task even with the war quieting down, he adds before she can say much. _Rafiks_ come up to them, and lesser-ranked assassins, and the occasional villager. Malik absorbs their greetings and accepts their complaints. Maria stops trying to join in the conversations at about the third one. She watches Malik instead.

Then he takes her towards the back of Masyaf, where the cliff is swallowed by sand. And by sea, a long way down. "While you were in Acre we reinforced the passage to the bottom," he says. "It's the only path of escape for the people who live this far from the main gate, should the fortress itself fall. The stairs have always been so slippery."

"Yes," says Maria, "I remember walking them with Altair and—"

"Even in the summer they're slick with mist. So we've tried to remedy that."

Maria walks down a step or two. "They feel sturdy. But shouldn't we still try to keep it more hidden?"

"There are extra guards on the cliffs. There," Malik points, "and over there. Across the river as well."

"Across the river is new, although Altair did mention it in a letter. It's not technically within our territory, is it?"

"We have our arrangements."

"Obviously."

"We need those extra sets of eyes. It's too vulnerable otherwise, it's always been. We can't trust the river to keep us hidden."

"Nothing about the assassins is _hidden_ ," Maria says with some exasperation. "Malik…"

"Come, at the bottom I'll show you the cliffs we've carved out along the beach. They aren't used much yet but in a desperate situation—"

"Malik!" Maria's heels click once against the stone stairs and refuse to lift again. Malik, who is a few steps ahead, turns to look upwards at her. "Stop _rushing_. You've dragged me from one end of the village to the next and haven't stopped to answer half of my questions. Or let me answer any on my own. Riding from Acre was less exhausting."

"My apologies. What questions can I answer?"

"For starters, you _are_ aware that I've kept in contact with my husband over the last year? He's told me half of what you've told me already, in great detail."

"Altair will go on about his schemes, but he'll leave out the boring bits. And the boring bits are usually important."

"Secondly, why are you leading me around like a farmer with a goat?"

"I offered yesterday. You accepted." Malik arches a brow. "Here we are."

"You said you'd show me what was changed! Not take me on some _forced march_. I might be a soldier but you aren't my general."

Malik murmurs, "Were you a soldier? I didn't think the Knights Templar let women in their ranks."

Maria's eyes flash and her chest swells, but Malik holds up his hand. "That was impolite," he says. "And stupid. My temper escaping me. Forgive it."

"It's forgiven."

"Then shall we continue? You really should see the caves."

"What does it matter what I see? You could run the whole Order drunk and blind, without me or half the _Rafiks_ , and probably without the Master. Altair's wife is a superfluous position next to Altair's second-in-command."

"Untrue," says Malik, though he has thought it, a time or two in that first year of their marriage, when it felt like everything that had been repaired was about to be thrust asunder by the risk of the Grandmaster's whims. When it felt as though he had surrendered on good faith only for Altair to take him for granted once more.

"Granted things would be much easier without the Master. But if I were so perfect, Altair's wife wouldn't have cause to scold me."

"I didn't call you perfect," Maria says, and focuses her direct, unsettling gaze on him, boring at him, picking at the cracks. "I said that you knew the Order well. You've always been here. How can any newcomer compare?"

"You're hardly new," Malik points out. "And we aren't comparing."

"Maybe we should. Maybe you should realize how dangerous it is for you, holding all the Master's secrets. I may not know the Brotherhood down to the last chipped rock like you, but I know a thing about royalty. The king likes to be the only one gifted with all-wisdom. He doesn't keep his teachers around for very long."

"Altair would make a terrible king. And I don't think I have much to fear from…" Malik reconsiders with an ache in his shoulder, and an ache further down. "I have a lot to fear from Altair," he allows, "but not betrayal. Not deliberate betrayal, anyway."

"Who says I was speaking of Altair?"

Malik squints up at her. "You and your husband both love to talk in riddles," he complains. "And then he scolds me for doing the same."

(But of course he understands what Maria means. Of course he sees the frustration in her eyes, the lost and lonely look of anyone far from home. Who can blame the woman who's born the heirs for wanting what should be hers? No, she doesn't _realize_ , not yet. But Maria was raised in a noble house, by knights and lords and learned men, and she sprouted up sharp.

The clouds are swelling, ready to burst. But still the heat gathers.)

"Come see the caves," says Malik. And leads her down.

_-i-_

Abbas considers strangling Ali. Whatever the silly man's aims are, whatever sand it is that clogs his head, why won't he listen to Abbas for even a second? There are plenty of people to bother with his prattling and his exclamations, if bothering the Brotherhood is his new mission in life: why then must they bother these people in particular? Abbas has been wondering (and he will not let himself realize _what_ exactly he has been wondering), but he knows that these two assassins are not likely to listen to what it is Abbas can't name.

Ali simpers over anyway, bobbing and grinning. Rauf at least smiles back. Raed ignores them both.

"So sorry to interrupt," says Ali, in that tone that is just a little too aware for someone playing the role of village idiot. "I wanted to introduce myself to the Order's best. So here I am."

Abbas tries not to groan. The Order's best? These two?

He shifts, sweating. The storage shed they've crammed themselves into is tiny, not meant to hold four people at once, especially not when it's already cluttered with stacks of weaponry. The light is dim and pulses through air heavy with dust. It hurts the throat to breath in deep, the air sharp as swords. This outbuilding is not so far from the hill where Abbas once tried to make his stand.

("Burning the Master's body? This is not our way. You see what he does? All of you! You see how he spits in your face?"

 _Why wouldn't they listen_?)

Ali is still babbling, Rauf attempting to follow the chatter and clean his sword at the same time. Abbas gives up trying to figure out why he's let himself be dragged across Masyaf so Ali can make new friends. He looks instead at Raed, who is sitting cross-legged despite the lack of space, scraping rust off a dagger. Raed looks back, face blank, because Raed is one giant blank. Others may call him still, or reserved. Abbas calls him dull.

They've known each other since childhood, but there's never been any friendship. Abbas isn't surprised that while he's been handed nothing but humiliation after humiliation for his attempts to save the Order, Raed has risen in the ranks for sake of being the lap dog's pet. And how pathetic is that? To grovel at the feet of one who grovels…somewhere else? Yes, Abbas thinks, and can't help but sneer with disgust, definitely somewhere else.

And the Order allows it! And the assassins turn their eye! If Altair thinks he's tempered the rumors by marrying the Templar witch, he's wrong. Abbas knows what he's heard. But the Brotherhood looks the other way, permitting this great sin to happen in their midst. Marrying Christians is at least allowed by God. What god would sanction marrying…?

Abbas, faced with Raed, wants to shake the man. Wants to shake everyone who wears assassin's robes, until they let themselves _realize_. But no one will listen to a traitor, though they follow one every day.

Rauf says in the background, "Oh, yes? Is that…huh?" He sounds mystified by Ali's surge but, being Rauf, is willing to try and muddle through. Abbas tries to ignore the regretful pang of watching him. They were friends once. Maybe Abbas never liked anyone here: some days it does feel like that. Some days he is jealous watching Ali meet others because he found him first. But Abbas and Rauf were friends, for whatever that word is worth.

Once, they were close. Once. Not now.

That has long been ended, smeared with awkwardness, punctured with treachery. Rauf made his choice. And it wasn't to stand with his friend.

"He talks a lot," says Raed to the air. "What exactly is he saying?" Abbas mumbles something about introducing Ali to his Brothers. "Oh?" replies Raed. "That's interesting. There've been many new faces to come since you left. You must need the introductions as much as he."

Will they never stop reminding him that he is an outsider? This Raed, so _quiet_ , so _even-tempered_. This Raed who Malik has feted in public. He's like the rest of them, only he covers it with an air of moral superiority. Abbas remembers being a child, remembers how they scoffed at him for fasting at Ramadan and praying when he could. Raed wasn't above the taunting. He wasn't so superior then.

"The Order hasn't changed so much," Abbas says. It sounds dumb even to his ears. Behind his empty face Raed is surely laughing.

"It felt changed to me when I came back from Jerusalem," Raed says. "And that wasn't such a long exile."

"Hardly exile if you chose it."

"You chose yours, as well."

"I did not—" Abbas strangles the words in his throat. "I did what I thought best. You weren't there. You don't know what happened."

"You took the Master's weapon and tried to lead a coup against him," says Raed calmly. "That was a choice. He could have had you killed. That was another choice."

"So I should be grateful? So I should kiss his feet the way you kiss Malik's?"

"The Order requires loyalty. If that's too much for you, the problem isn't with Master Altair."

"Altair was wrong then! Burning Al Mualim's body, the shame of it, wasn't he our Master also? Wasn't that a coup?"

"Al Mualim was corrupt. He caused the deaths of many of our Brothers."

"Who was it who killed those assassins that day? Not Al Mualim. I was in the mountain village when it happened. A lot closer than _Jerusalem_. I saw Al Mualim and…he wasn't himself. I don't know what he was trying to do, I don't argue that he betrayed us. But one betrayal doesn't support another."

Raed turns his back, ending the conversation. Abbas steams. One Master forgot himself, yes. Does that mean everyone must forget the cruelties of the next? All his life Altair has scorned them!

That was why Abbas took hold of the golden orb that day. To make his Brothers see. To make them understand. To show Altair that though people want to forget, want to be led, though Malik tramps on his brother's _grave_ every time he lets Altair _touch_ him—though people are weak Allah is strong, and Abbas is strong through Him, strong enough to fight for the Brotherhood, strong enough to save it.

(He held the orb and it hurt like fire, like acid, like the separation of man from God, it scalded his skin and his bones and ran him through with wicked laughter in his ears, _Who are you? Why would we bother with you?_ and down to the depths of his marrow Abbas was not worthy of even this Templar trick, and he thrashed with it, with the clinging inadequacy that wrenched him from his home.

And he thought, _Altair can wield this._ He thought, _Allah's mercy. Altair is so much stronger than I._ )

"Well," says Ali, bringing Abbas back to the dusty room, the heaps of weapons in the close air and Raed's disdain. "I know you're busy. We'll be off."

"Um, ok," says Rauf. He glances at Abbas and reddens: "We should spar soon," he says, which is a surprise. "It's been a long time." It's been a long time because Rauf has been avoiding him, but still, Abbas wishes he'd been paying attention to the banter.

"It's curious about those villages, though. A tragedy," Ali says over his shoulder as he turns to nudge open the door. His hair has frizzed in the wet, close air, making him look a touch ridiculous.

"It's terrible," says Rauf, "but, well, it's a dangerous world."

"Certainly is. There's been a rash of village burnings lately, didn't you say? Although the war is over."

Now Raed is listening too. "The war ended. The Templars didn't," he points out, in a voice very close to a growl. "The Master has done well with the Order. We owe him everything. The whole Levant does."

Such an outburst is unusual for him. Abbas raises an eyebrow.

"Oh, of course, of course!" Ali holds up his hands. "I'm only saying what a shame it is, to be attacked at the end of things. When Masyaf's safety isn't so far away."

Rauf looks distinctly uncomfortable. "They were offered protection…"

"Yes, you explained it all very well. They were offered protection by the Master and they turned it down. The Master can't be blamed. It's their choice to make."

"It is," says Rauf, relieved.

"Even if the villages were then attacked soon after rejecting the offer. It's a shame, is all I'm saying. If they'd listened to the Master no harm would have come to them…" Raed rises at that, but Ali chitters and waves him off. "I didn't mean that how it sounded. Everyone knows it was the Templars. That's what they do, and that's what the Master said. I talk too much. Forgive me!"

Rauf busies himself with his swords. Raed stares them out of the shed.

Ali is whistling as the two of them follow the path towards the fortress. Abbas asks, "What was that?"

"Hm? Nothing more than a chat."

"What were you talking about?"

"You, mostly. I hadn't realized you and Rauf were such good friends. You should have told me!"

Abbas, startled, says, "We were friends. What matter is it of yours?"

"Nothing, nothing, only I told him how thankful I was for your tutelage, and how lucky he was to have your wisdom around growing up."

" _Shoo hada_? What did you…why did you…"

"He agreed, of course."

"He did?"

"Yes, of course. Looked a little embarrassed, even, to be reminded of good times. I thought that was weird."

Ali is smiling, as usual, looking silly, as usual. Abbas is flabbergasted. "And…and the villages?"

"Oh, that. He mentioned one of the attacks when I asked him where _Dai_ Malik found his son. Since he isn't married. Just curious is all."

"No, he isn't married. Hah!" Abbas curls his lip. "He doesn't even have the wisdom to hide it with a woman like Altair."

"Hide it?" Ali cocks his head. "Hide what?"

"Nothing. Clearly it doesn't matter to anyone here but me."

Ali stops walking. "Tell me," he says. "Brother."

And why not? Nowhere in the Quran is Abbas required to safeguard the sins of others. "I used to think Malik was smart," he says carefully. "Smart enough to see how things really are, if he'd just use his eyes. But I've since learned that he's blind as the rest of them. Only blind in a different way. He must enjoy whoring himself to Altair. Even if it got his brother killed."

"You curse so much, you know. I'm always surprised to hear you speak the way you do, being Muslim."

"It's not cursing, it's description. I've said nothing that isn't true."

"Wait. Do you mean the _Dai_ is…?"

"Whore, catamite, _khawal,_ _akroot, zamel_. The Master and his mistress." Abbas throws up his hands. "But it doesn't matter! We are not religious here!"

Ali says, "That's interesting."

"It's disgusting. And these men would raise _children_. At least Altair is collecting wives. I don't know what Malik thinks he is."

"Does everyone really know?"

"People suspect. If it were made clear even this bunch of atheists would have to react."

"Yes, I guess they would. Very interesting," says Ali again. "I would never have guessed."

_-i-_

The fortress feels filled with children, with older children sneaking into meetings where they aren't needed, with younger children stealing quills from scribes as a prank, with infants bawling for the sheer joy of working lungs. Altair will not deal with it, and Maria has always acted, probably rightly, as though playing Mother in front of other assassins would dent her reputation. Somehow it falls on Malik to manage the heirs, his own included.

Interspersed with this are what Maria aptly terms war councils. They and a select group of informants cluster around tables choked with maps. The Mongols' every movement is tracked, discussed, prodded at. To call them merely a worthy opponent would be an insult to the Mongols…Malik can't be the only one wondering what their cities must look like, their people and customs. The trouble is that all they can do is wonder. The Mongols leaders are good at catching spies and better at catching infiltrators: Altair sends his best men but few of them return. The Mongols have talented scouts, maybe, or a culture that's difficult to mimic. Or something else.

Malik the assassin knows there's no one who can't be discovered in time. Malik the mapmaker doesn't trust empty spaces. They tend to have dragons in them.

Between the two distractions, children and war, there's little time for anything else. Little time to see how Maria is settling in. Even less to sleep.

Yet somehow Altair finds the time to slip inside Malik's room at some horrid hour of the night…

Malik, tired as he is, should protest, but he's too taken aback. With Maria and Sef back he'd assumed their trysts would trickle off. But here Altair is, panting in a way that only makes him sound more powerful, pressing Malik's shoulders to the bed and shoving his tongue down Malik's throat.

They fuck like the young men they aren't any longer, and when they're done it's a content Malik who shoves Altair from the bed so he can pull off the sticky quilts. Altair curses. The Grandmaster surely looks his best when he's being pushed on his ass.

Afterwards, pouring water from a jug into a basin so he can wash himself, Malik comments, "I'm surprised you're here."

Altair is slouched against a wall, naked, turning his hidden blade's brace over in his hands. "Hmm," he says, not really listening.

Malik turns to face him. "I mean it," he says, louder. "It's a shock."

"It shouldn't be." Altair holds up the brace. "You've never worn one," he says. "Why?"

Malik tries to guess the hidden meaning in the question, but damn it all, it's too late for games. "Hidden blades are for Master Assassins."

"You _are_ a Master Assassin."

"You should stop playing with that thing. Why do you fall in love with your weapons? Sef and Darim could stand to see the same affection."

"Did you hear me? You are a Master Assassin. Why don't you wear one?"

How to tell him that Malik thinks of himself as _Dai_ , not Master Assassin? "I like my arm free," is what he says. "The brace is clunky. If I could wear it on my left wrist maybe I would."

Altair says, "I'm working on a lighter design," and Malik respects his ability to talk over his guilt.

He goes back to washing up. "You shouldn't be here," he says. Running a wet cloth over himself, he sees how Altair stiffens.

"Where should I be?"

"In bed with your wife. You can't be so obvious. She's going to find out."

Altair straightens off the wall. His nude body is all scar and shadow. "Let everyone find out."

Malik drops the wash cloth and raps his hand against the basin's edge. "Don't be an idiot," he snaps. "Think of what would happen, not just to you but to her. And to your children. And to my own."

Altair looks at him, lips tightening with unexpected anger. "I'm tired of _thinking of it_. Listening to you worry is exhausting. These needless secrets are—"

"Hardly needless! And you should be happiest with secrets, assassin. Allah's sake, Altair, I can't figure out what it is you want."

Altair says, "What I've always wanted: everything I deserve. Everything." Malik doesn't know how to answer that. Altair comes up to him and rubs against him and he is closer than he should be, close enough that they are almost one person, one form alone, and it's almost like it used to be, before. Before Kadar and Al Mualim and Maria. Before Altair traded away his freedom to the Piece of Eden without knowing what he'd done.

"So," Altair breathes in his ear, "then do it."

"Do what?"

"Tell her. Send me back to my wife's bed and keep me there."

Malik gives a slow shake of his head. "No."

"Why not?"

"Because I was here first," he says, and his lost arm hurts, and his head does too. "I was here first, and I have paid my dues."

As Altair drops to his knees he doesn't look happy, or wounded, or anything at all. In the end, it doesn't matter much. "There are more," he says, so quiet Malik almost doesn't hear him. "More Pieces of Eden. The Apple said as much. I don't know where they are, but I remember that map…"

"As do I," Malik says around an indrawn breath. "It wasn't a map of our world. Half those places don't exist."

"Maybe they do. Maybe we haven't found them yet. Maybe the Mongols are looking for them too." Altair is busy then for some moments, too busy with his mouth to talk. Malik closes his eyes and tries not to think.

"I'm going to find the other ones," Altair says when next he can, lips glistening and face flushed. "Before the Mongols, or anyone else. They're too dangerous. They can't be left scattered as they are. I need to know…"

"Need to know what?" Malik wants to know, and then is too distracted to remember he'd ever asked.

_-i-_

The villagers gather when the assassins arrive.

Assassins are frequent guests here, most for the brothel. But some are stationed here as guards. Several were born in the village itself, several more in the surrounding hills. It isn't Al Masyaf, but it's close enough and small enough that sometimes it forgets. Assassins are not unusual, or unexpected.

Still, this time the villagers gather. There's something beguiling about the man with wiry hair and baggy trousers who peers about with inordinate interest. The man with him, long-faced, thickly bearded, in typical journeyman attire, is less interesting.

The sky looms close and pitted.

The villagers gather, men in striped _djellabas_ , boys fiddling with their prayer caps, even a few women in all-encompassing black. They listen to the man with wiry hair introduce himself as Ali, which is a good name, a strong and familiar name. These are the days of unfamiliar names, after all: leaders named for no father taking wives named for false gods. The villagers trust the Masyaf assassins, but recognition is refreshing.

Ali's business here is unclear. He professes to have no interest in the brothel, is surprised that it exists at all, wonders at pious people – "And I can see," he cries, "that you are all very pious!" – allowing such fecund depravity to exist.

The bearded assassin nods his head. The villagers shrug and mumble. The brothel has always existed here, in some form or another. The assassins like it; the whores bring in good business; the local _sheiks_ are powerless against the will of the Grandmaster.

Ali says that is a shame. He says the Grandmaster isn't a king. He says even Master Altair should not be able to override the will of the people. He says the Master is a great man, though, a wise leader, this is obvious, and maybe he just doesn't realize what the people want. How often does he visit with them? When was the last time he stooped to ask their opinions?

Ali claims to be startled by the answer of _almost never_ , though he doesn't look it with his round eyes and his smile showing all his teeth. The villagers point out that the Master sends his second to tend to disputes quite often. Yes, Ali agrees, the Master does this quite often indeed.

How often, he asks, does Altair send his Templar wife?

There is some minor uproar at this. The woman isn't a Templar. The woman is never sent. To send a woman to treat with men would be the utmost affront. It's rude to all involved even to discuss her in a public setting. It besmirches her honor and theirs.

Ali keeps nodding, and grinning, and later all the villagers will agree that whatever charm he had was in that smile. Ali says he was only curious. He says he wonders if the Master will follow that custom, since he ignores so many of the rest. The bearded assassin says nothing at all.

There's only one moment where Ali is interrupted. An old man, settled in by the horse troughs as if he sprouted from the spot, wants to know exactly what business any of this is to a new assassin. The old man knows ranks and hierarchy. He knows how the Brotherhood operates. He's given to it before.

"Things work here as they've always done," the old man points out. "They work without help from you. Don't you need permission just to leave Masyaf?"

Ali's smile withers at the edges. He doesn't look so mesmeric now. But he's polite to the old man, which is fitting, because the elderly must be respected even if they've outlived their families and friends and (so the villagers comment later) some of their sanity as well.

Everyone in the village knows the old man, and because his voice is so recognizable it flows past them without sticking. Ali is new. His voice has crags, and crevices, and it catches in novel places.

After the two assassins leave the gathering dissolves, the people getting back to their lives. But some of the men stand talking in low voices, their shoulders stiff as barricades to ward off unwanted ears. The old man, still sitting by the horse trough, proclaims himself disgusted by the liberties of the young, but no one's listening to him.

It was only a couple of assassins, and this is a village that is used to assassins, and so Ali's visit can't have mattered much at all…

_-i-_

Locked away in an old trunk, a shard of gold that gleams like glass begins to glow. Only faintly. Only for a moment. And with the trunk's owner elsewhere, there's no one near enough the shard to see.

Outside it starts to rain. Too early and too heavy, the panic of farmers, but it doesn't last. Doesn't do nearly enough for a world that is sandy scrublands, parched since Creation, thirsty for magics beyond what the clouds can bring.

_-i-_

They've done it, Abbas thinks. It's been some weeks since he and Ali arrived, the latter's mishmash of clothing replaced by basic white-and-red, and finally he's been introduced to _everyone_. Ever.

It's almost a relief for Abbas to finish his midday watch (the worst guard shift, which goes straight through the afternoon heat and past the hope of timely supper) and not see Ali beaming at him. The new assassin must actually be training.

Abbas slides off the bulky holster, depositing his sword at his feet, and dips his head into a small fountain cut into the fortress wall. He is pounds lighter without the sword, without the day's sweat; he is lighter in other ways, too. Never mind his insult of a post, the grueling heat-pressed stint usually handed to newly-made journeymen. Never mind all the insults of his life. Allah is with those who suffer. Abbas lets water drip down his neck. He will pray, eat, take an early night's rest.

"Abbas! _Good evening_ , Brother. Safety and peace."

Abbas turns, still dripping, blinking back water and dismay. It isn't that he dislikes Ali's attention—he _deserves_ Ali's attention—but the man's whims are so exhausting. A curse of a gift. Abbas was prepared to lose Ali once he joined the Brotherhood, was prepared to watch him go the way of all his childhood companions. But Ali wanted to join the Order, and the Order always needs new men…and Ali has shown little interest in actually _befriending_ any of the many people to whom he's said hello.

"Safety and peace," Abbas says, then pauses. "What was that you just said? _Gude eehvn_ -?"

Ali tilts his head. Does his smile stiffen just a touch? "Hm? _Good evening_ , it's an English greeting. You don't know it?"

"Why should I learn the Crusaders' tongue? They can learn mine." He stoops to rearm himself. "I never studied English, or French either. The Quran is in God's language, so Arabic is enough for me."

"That's true, that's true, yes." Ali nods. "As for me, my parents traded with anyone who had coin. Sometimes I speak without realizing what I've picked up."

"Hmph. Too much knowledge can be a burden if it's in the wrong things."

"I agree." Ali is wriggling again, eyes dancing, tone dancing too. "Why, I was just coming to scold you! But it's really my fault for having asked. I so regret last week's little talk."

"What talk?" Abbas moves toward the front gates, expecting Ali to follow, distracted with thoughts of supper and sleep. But Ali stays put, though he does rock his heels, and he ignores Abbas's impatient finger-beckon. The guardsman is forced to retrace his steps. The sun is strong even at this hour, last week's rain a memory dried to dust. He can feel fresh sweat kissing his spine.

Ali says, "You re _mem_ ber. What you told me about the Master. So shocking."

"Shh! Don't bring it up so casually. You haven't mentioned it to others?" Abbas demands.

Ali's eyes widen. "Oh, no, oh, of course not."

"You have to watch yourself here. This is a village of assassins. You think they won't listen in?"

"Yes, right."

"I shouldn't have told you. I was-…" caught up in his sticky anger, raging at Raed and Altair and most of all Rauf. "Assassins can't gossip about their Master," he says, stiff but sure. "Even if he's going to lead them to the pits of Hell or the Mongols' maw."

Ali says delicately, "The Mongols are disrupting the trade routes. It's causing some concern, I hear."

"It's Master Altair's concern. I will guard my gate. If there's nothing else," says Abbas, "I want to wash up. It's almost time for _Maghrib."_ He hesitates, looks to Ali's boots rather than his face when he asks, "Join me?" It feels more salacious than it should, inviting another to share in a private moment between him and God, and anyway Ali isn't religious so probably he won't—but Islam is about community, really, and wouldn't it be nice not to pray alone for once? Wouldn't it be nice if he and Ali prayed—as friends might pray together anywhere—even in this Brotherhood that has room for all but keeps everyone alone—

" _Maghrib_?" Ali looks blank. "Oh! Well, I won't keep you. I just wanted to say."

"Yes. It's an embarrassment."

"I guess great leaders can be forgiven their sins, even very large ones, so long as they lead well. And no one can say Master Altair isn't a great leader. He has men everywhere. So I guess he can be forgiven."

"So he must tell himself." Abbas looks towards the fortress. "It's not my place to prevent his sinning. He does his duty by the Order—"

"Even if the men never see him. Even if he never spends time with the villagers whose support is so important. Even if…it might not be right to say it, but he always seems distracted. You remember our first day back, how he didn't want to attend any of his meetings. Wanted to send Malik instead."

"He does that too often," Abbas grumbles, then catches himself with a frown. "Ali..."

"Oh, I'm not saying anything negative, don't think it, I'm just pointing out: he's often distracted. By Malik, I suppose, or by empty corners... Everyone I've spoken to has noticed it. He's the Master, he can sequester himself if he likes. But I think other leaders might not be so frivolous with their duties."

"Other leaders? Ali, what are you talking about?"

Ali smiles, pats his shoulder. "You are such a good assassin," he says softly. "You deserve more than what he's given you." Abbas can't work his way to coherency. It's _wrong_ , what Ali is saying, it's treason.

And Allah knows it's true.

"Altair doesn't take me for a threat," Abbas says, and can't hide the wound, doesn't even know if he wants to hide it. "He doesn't take me for anything worthwhile. He never has."

"I think Altair forgets his pieces," muses Ali, who has turned his head away and is gazing off past the training ring. "He can only think on grand scales, but all grand things were small things once."

"Listen, Ali, you've said enough."

"And to think!" Ali all but bellows. Abbas almost jumps. "What he is doing with Malik! It isn't our place to judge it, but I feel for his wife. Think of it, if the one you shared your bed with was committing carnal acts with the wrong sex entirely and _every_ one knew it. And you had to humiliate yourself, talk with the man in question like he was your friend. Maybe if it was with a woman, men will always want a fresh pair of tits in their bed, but a man? And if you suspected it but couldn't prove it, well, I think it'd drive me mad."

" _Inti mafish mukh_ , Ali, you brainless fool, will you shut your mouth! You'll get the both of us killed." Abbas snares the edge of Ali's sleeve and drags him across the courtyard. Ali lets himself be dragged, the smile still twisting his lips. "I _told_ you. Why would you _shout_ it? For God's sake, idiot, have some sense-..."

Abbas stops mid-word, mid-step, almost mid-breath. His heart should be racing more than it is, his stomach should be entirely knotted. But he feels only confused. It's Maria Thorpe who looks caught in some crime, standing at the winding ramp that leads to the main hall's great doors, eyes darting under thick lashes from Abbas and Ali to the nearest guards, as though trying to gauge from behind their masks what they might have heard. She came from one of the towers, Abbas realizes, from one of the little paths that splices off the main ramp, and he hadn't seen her, and she'd heard.

And Ali, limp in his grip, isn't even trying to hide his smile.

Maria, in her man's armor, with her knives, looks young, almost childish. But she is a soldier, if women can be soldiers, and she arches her shoulders back so sharply it must hurt. She walks past them with every step a furious crack against the dirt. She is the wife of Abbas's Master, she outranks him in every conceivable way, and she stares him in the eye as she passes.

But she looks young, and pale, and very much the interloper. Which she has always been.

Ali pulls himself from Abbas's grip with a little spin no novice assassin should know. "You knew she was there," Abbas says to him. "You saw her. She could have us both split open, you fool, but you knew that. Why...?"

"Small things," says Ali, laughing, "Small things, Brother. You would do _much_ better in his role."

There is nothing left of the fool in him now.


	7. Chapter 5

**_Very Few, and Strangers in it_ **

Sef is only seven, but he has always known his place.

In his first years he was the Younger Son: not quite the heir, loved but easily forgotten. He had the freedom to roam the fortress unmolested and the nervous respect of Masyaf. His father, great and important man, pale-skinned where others were dark and alone where others sought company, watched him often but rarely spoke. His mother was stern and practical except when in her private quarters, where she would sit slumped by the day's insults ( _Christian Templar unnatural bitch_ ) and fuss with her things. She let Sef sit with her then.

While he was Younger Son Darim was Older, and the duties fell harshly on his shoulders like hail instead of rain. He was always being thrown into the training ring. Their father was always finding fault. Mother, saying she could not baby him forever, was not much different. Their _Dai-_ Uncle Malik was kinder but also sad, and it was tiring even for Sef to have to meet those heavy eyes, especially on sunny days when the world was hot and sweet. Darim didn't act as though he missed the affection. And he mocked Sef for getting it and giving it both.

Sef was Young-Old next, still a child but less so, changed in ways without words to describe them. Father had little understanding or patience for children, even his, especially his, and he avoided them both now when not watching them spar. Swords he carried and cared for. Offspring, less so.

Mother was weary, Sef at this age could see, tired of having to fight for her place. But it was harder for him to care, because she pushed him out of her room whenever her eyes began to glaze.

He trained a lot more now. He fought with _Dai_ Malik, his instructors, and his parents. While Darim looked on from the next ring over and frowned.

After came the Year Away, traveling with his mother to Acre. Darim didn't come, because he was too old, and Father wanted him to stay in Masyaf and prepare to be the Order's leader. That's what Mother said. Sef took in the Brotherhood with his mother's milk when he suckled. He never knew there could be other ways of living, other choices. He accepted this answer and assumed Darim did, too.

Acre was scary and fallen and _wonderful_. Surrounded by her once-kin in the ruined churches and sacked monasteries and sprawling refugee slums, Maria Thorpe glowed. She sent messages back to Masyaf often, but never asked Sef if he might want to add a greeting to the letter. And there were never any in the letters returned, except the occasional courtesy when Malik was the one to respond.

Through all of it, all the stages of his life, Sef as youngest son and Grandmaster's heir and Acre novice—through all of it, there were rumors.

Rumors about his father. Rumors that he hated for the way they gouged chunks of life from his mother. Rumors he asked Darim about once, before Acre. Darim called him names for insulting their father and wouldn't talk to him for a week.

Now Sef is back in Al Masyaf, far from Acre's old stones and black-market crowds buzzing like flies around a carcass. As always, he knows his place.

His place this afternoon is sparring with his brother, but it's a sweltering day, winter not so far but feeling like an impossible dream. Darim is scowling and swinging his weapon with more bad humor than Sef feels like dealing with. It's _hot_. He finds a scrap of shade to claim and claims it stubbornly, sprawling his limbs out to steal all the room. Masyaf is always hot, except in the winter when it's _freezing,_ and there's ice crusting the sides of all the wells, and the stables down at the bottom of the village are cloudy with the horses' steamed breath.

Acre was also cold, in a dank, salty, moldy way. But at least it didn't snow and the ocean never froze, and his mother covered her head to keep her hair dry, which was a relief, because even in Acre there were stares and one seven-year-old boy could only fight so many people for his mother's honor. But he didn't have to do that as much in Acre, home of winter mist and Christians.

Sef prefers Acre to Masyaf, all in all.

"Come on, lazy." Darim bangs the hilt of his sword against his thigh. "We're supposed to be training."

"It's hot."

"So? You think Father will care? He'll beat you for disobeying."

"He never has."

"Then the instructors will."

" _They_ never have." Darim bangs the sword hilt against his leg again, and Sef thinks that the only one bruising his brother is in fact his brother. "No one ever hits you outside of the ring. I don't even know what you're talking about."

"Stand up and train with me already, would you?"

Twelve-year-old Darim, all huff and anger. He makes Sef tired.

"Lazy. This is why you're nothing special when you fight. Just another novice."

"So?"

"So? We're Altair's sons. The Grandmaster's sons! And it makes him look bad when his sons are nothing special."

"I dunno. You're pretty good."

"I'm very good. I'll run missions soon, wait and see."

"Ok." Sef sits up, shrugs. His sword is out of its scabbard, on the dirt. Uncle Malik would scold if he saw. He's always telling Sef to show his weapons their proper respect.

But some people in this village treat their weapons better than they do their Master's wife. That's what feels wrong. When Sef cuts himself he can see the blood and feel the sting. When he dings his blade he sees and feels neither. He asked Darim about that too, once, and Darim called him a baby.

"You're good for nothing if you can't fight. Father says that all the time."

"Not that often."

"How would you know? He doesn't tell every secret to some kid. And you've been in Acre for a year, while _I've_ been at his side."

Sef pouts. Darim pronounces _Acre_ the way their mother pronounces _plague_. "I'm back now," the younger boy says. "I have tons of time to practice with you and Father. Today is too hot."

"Are you stupid?" Darim throws his sword down in a pout their father _might_ smack him for. "Don't you ever pay attention?"

'"Course I do. Don't call me stupid." Sef turns his head against the ground to watch a crawling ant. "Uncle Malik says you're supposed to be nice to me 'cause you're my brother."

Darim snorts, "What does he know? His brother's dead."

"Well, I'm not gonna die," says Sef, biting his lip through a sudden chill. "Neither are you."

"I really hate when he gets all big-eyed about family. He's always talking about families should do this and be that. But he's not our family. And how can we do _any_ thing when you and Mother are off in Acre?"

"We're back, Darim."

"See? You don't listen. You think you're staying?"

Sef sits up. Dirt clings to the back of his grey tunic. "Aren't we?"

"No. I heard Father and Mother talking—"

"You shouldn't do that, Darim! You shouldn't listen in on them, you're gonna get in trouble."

"If I didn't listen who would tell me anything? You?" Darim pins him with a look. "They were talking this morning. Mother's not staying here."

"Why wouldn't she? I mean…I guess Acre might need her back…"

"She's not staying because she doesn't _want_ to. So she won't. She'll go back to Acre and run its bureau. And I'm sure she'll take you with her again. Not me. I'm the elder son. I have to stay with _Father_."

Sef tries to picture the man. Tries to remember him warm or cold, loving or strict. Mother—well, he loves her, of course, as much as Uncle Malik must have loved his brother, with clingy strength. But his father? Sef respects him. Respects the man who on occasion used to run a hand over his youngest son's head and look almost afraid. But he doesn't know him well.

If Mother goes to Acre, will it be worse for Darim if she takes Sef or if she leaves them both behind? The boy feels sick. Either way, something will be wrong.

He picks up his sword, stands and parries with it a few times, but he's distracted, and Darim must see it, because the older boy finally jabs the back end of his weapon into his brother's gut. Hard. Sef hits the ground with a solid plop, wincing and gulping.

"Ow!" he says. "That hurt."

"It's supposed to. You're training."

"Yeah, and training's just pretend."

"Nothing here is pretend. If you don't know what you're doing Father'll send you out on a mission and you'll die."

Sef hunches over, his stomach still smarting, his vision swimming with tears. "Will not," he mumbles. "Assassins don't have to die."

"But you're not an assassin, are you, when you're only _playing pretend_. Mother going to Acre must be pretend too! I don't care. Go with her and pretend to be an assassin there."

"I like Acre. It's dirty and crowded but people really need the assassins there. It's good for Mother. And everything smells like the sea."

Darim slams his sword back into its holster. "I. Don't. _Care_ ," he grits out, "about Acre. You're too young to know what's good or useful. You're just a kid."

"Mother's happier there," Sef says quietly.

"Liar!"

"She's happier there even without Father, even without—but I don't think she'd go back. She wouldn't 'cause you couldn't come and you're her son too. And 'cause we're brothers, and everyone says we should stay together so we can, well, train and stuff."

"She wouldn't," Darim mocks, hands clamped to his hips. "She wouldn't, she couldn't, she didn't say. Of course she's going to go back to Acre if she's _happier_. And she'll leave me behind again. And this time maybe she'll leave _you_."

"No. You're wrong. I know you are."

"You don't know anything. She's going to leave both of us here. And Father's too busy training me to bother with you."

"Father doesn't even bother—" But Sef stops himself at his brother's curled lip. Darim _is_ his older brother, and stronger than him too. And brittle in ways Sef can't fix.

He says instead, "You're so wrong. Mother's not gonna leave, not by herself. I'll show you. I'll ask them."

"They won't tell you."

"I'll ask anyway!"

And the younger boy marches off on stiff knees, sick-scared and swollen from Darim's derisive laughter chasing him out of the courtyard and into the fortress. This might be his first mission, his next place: the sensible, the Wise Beyond Years. The one who will remind them all that they are a family, even if assassins rarely have families, and they belong together. Maybe he is the one who must make Mother cover her hair and keep Darim from nagging like an old man. Maybe he is the one who must remind the Grandmaster that he is a husband and a parent, too.

Sef feels very small. The fortress ceilings are high even in the offshoot hallways, and the ones he's walked all his life seem different after Acre. He could be lost. He'll get lost and starve and his body will be found a year later by a novice skipping lessons. His lip dips into a tremble.

The problem is Acre! Acre and the sea that churns up noise, hiding gossip. Or the problem is Al Masyaf, and the river that isn't noisy enough to do the same. The problem is the Order, and the Creed he's known since before he could say it: _Nothing is true. Everything is permitted._ But it is _not_ permitted for Sef's family to be so unhappy. And it's _true_ that Father is a good father, and Mother a good mother, and Darim the best brother of all. Sef only has to remind them.

The problem is that Sef knows his place, and his place is hard to reach.

The fortress wraps around him. He heads not for the main hall, wide and crowded, but for the hallway he suspects he's not supposed to know is there. The one that narrows at the end before butting into a windowless wall. The one with the trapdoor. He's always been slightly scared of that trap door—so high! so dark!—and he knows he'd be banned from using it if anyone realized he'd seen his father slip inside.

But no one's realized, not even _Dai_ Malik. Sef tugs open the cover, sweaty fingers slipping at the metal handle, thin arms bulging with the weight, until finally he's pried it open. Darim would be proud of his instincts and his strength. But Darim is back in the courtyard cursing rocks.

The space beyond the trapdoor is black and musty. He gulps, peering down at it. But his father goes down here often, and Sef must ask his father if it's true that they're to be separated again. It isn't true. But if it _is_ then Sef must stop it right away.

He sits down on the lip and dangles his legs into the murk, half-expecting some green-skinned ghoul to reach out a rotting arm and claw his flesh. The fortress is haunted with tons of dead novices, Darim always says so. Other people say so too.

A few years ago Sef had wandered bored from Masyaf's gates and found some peasants sitting around a fire, and they told him that his father could command ghosts and raise the dead. Everyone knew it. _Dai_ Malik found him then, smacked him upside the head for leaving the village and brought him back, so he never learned which ghosts exactly his father used. Whoever they are, they're probably at the bottom of this hole, waiting for seven-year-olds to devour.

He drops through the hole with a gulp.

It isn't as far down as the gloom suggested, but he lands awkwardly, and his ankle throbs. Sef hops a few steps on his good ankle, bent with one hand on his bad one and the other hand flailing at the air. Probably not the smoothest jump ever made by an assassin. But here he is, facing down the dusty cobwebs and whatever monsters lurk in the corners. Bravery is worth a stiff ankle.

There's only one door in this stubby hall, a wooden one sharp with splinters and sagging with the weight of the stone ceiling it bears. When Sef tries the handle, he finds it latched, but that's a minor hindrance. Sef is the son of the _Grandmaster_. He's been picking latches since he was four.

Nervously he pushes the wooden slab ajar. "Father?" he whispers, peering in.

The room is something of a letdown.

No ghosts, no strange creations, and no Father either. Just a low ceiling and a giant desk stained with spilled ink. A mounted candle sputters, the wick burned down to the last. There aren't even any interesting spiders.

Nonplussed, Sef wanders in. The Assassin Grandmaster ought to have all sorts of secrets, but this is just a room. There are scrolls tacked to the walls, many flecked with dripped candle wax and smeared with soot, but none of the drawings mean anything to Sef. Weapons, most of them look like; Darim would be entertained. But Sef still has trouble lifting swords not made of wood.

The scrolls on the desk are no less enlightening. Nothing about Mother going to Acre or her sons staying behind, only endless scrawls about Mongols and barracks and promotions for novices. Sef can practically hear Darim snorting in his ear, _This is all important work. You're a lousy assassin if you don't care_. But he _doesn't_ care. Not as much as he cares about his family and his home.

The desk is swamped with layers, newer parchment weighing down the old. It's like digging through a muddy field, trying to get to the bottom without the top oozing in. Sef finds some doodles of Masyaf's gates and the fortress ramparts, some design sketches of journeyman armor and hidden blade braces. He finds a drawing of his mother: she's younger in it, and wearing her old Crusader armor. Her eyes don't look so pressing. Sef frees it from its pile, holding it carefully to keep it from creasing. His mother is really very pretty, he decides.

Bored now, he's half-forgotten the urgency that drove him to this forbidden place. He rushes through the piles, no longer bothering to keep things organized as they were. His father won't notice one mess over another. A little book slips into his hands, loose paper leaf pressed into a tanned leather casing. It must have been expensive. Perhaps his father has noted the movements of his family in here, the way he notes the movements of his men?

It's hot in the small room, and Sef's brown curls droop into his eyes with sweat. He hefts them back with one hand and begins to read at random: _I have spent days with the artifact now,_ Altair has written in an uneven hand. _Or has it been weeks? Months? I can no longer be certain…_

Sef frowns. The artifact?

_The others come from time to time - offering food or distraction. They say I should separate myself from these studies… Malik has even suggested I abandon them entirely. But I am not yet ready to turn away. …'He who increaseth knowledge, increaseth sorrow…'_

None of it means anything to Sef. He turns the page.

_Those subjected to its glow are promised all that they desire. It asks only one thing in return: complete and total obedience. And who can truly refuse? It is temptation incarnate._

But Altair is the Grandmaster. He doesn't have to listen to anyone. Not his wife, not his men, not _Dai_ Malik. He doesn't even have to remember his sons.

_The Apple has a tale to tell. I sense the flickers of something - great and dangerous… We are all at risk. It is my duty to do something about it. I must not - cannot - turn away until I've found the truth._

The boy shivers. "We are all at risk?" he says, startling himself by his own voice. But it's much too airless and quiet here now. He needs to hear someone familiar speak. "We can't be. We're assassins. Father's an assassin. Ugh, I don't know what any of this means."

He's tempted to stamp his foot. All he wants is to keep his family whole! Instead he gets riddles and frightening words. The little book is a hateful thing, a vile thing, he wishes he'd never picked it up. If there were a proper fire he'd burn it! Instead he turns to the last page, to see what truth his father found.

 _Him again,_ the Master's written. _I see him more and more. A taunt? A curse? It's useless to fret over illusions._

The middle of the page is blank, but at the bottom, in a half-legible scrawl, Sef reads, _Malik. I won't tell you. How Kadar talks to us both. I won't let you want to leave._

Sef throws the book to the floor and runs from the room. The door bangs shut behind him but he doesn't bother with the latch. It's not easy to scramble back out of the trapdoor, he's not tall enough and his fingers can't get a good grip, but he manages it and hoists himself panting into welcome daylight. Then he keeps running, for the courtyard and Darim.

His speed is better than his vision, his eyes smeared with sun and fear. He flies past older assassins who murmur at his haste, but there's no way for him to slow down. Not until he bumps into someone who almost seems to walk into him deliberately. But Sef, desperate for Darim to call him a baby and explain it all away, doesn't notice. The assassin he's banged into kneels and holds out a steadying hand. "What's wrong?" he asks.

Sef knows he shouldn't say. But this man is his Brother, if not his brother. "It doesn't make sense," he gasps at him. "Father doesn't make sense. Everyone knows that Kadar is dead."

"They say your father can raise the dead. Who is Kadar?"

" _Dai_ Malik's brother. I know they do. I know he can! But why would he? He shouldn't do that. It's wrong."

"You shouldn't worry," says the assassin. "I'm sure you've simply misunderstood."

"But he _wrote_ it. Not about me or Darim or Mother. About seeing Malik and his dead brother!"

The assassin asks, "About the Apple? About that too?"

Sef squints at him. "How can apples raise the dead?"

But the assassin straightens up with a shake of his frizzy-haired head. "Don't worry about that," he says. "It's not something for children to fuss over. Your father's problems will soon be solved."

"Will they?" Sef hesitates, peering up at this smiling stranger. "'Cause if Mother goes—and if we don't go with her—"

"The Order is here to help your father. Isn't it?"

"I guess so. Yeah. I've got to find Darim."

The assassin waves him off. Sef feels better for telling him, despite the low-ranking robes the man wears. He will feel better still for telling Darim…but what will he tell Darim? How will he explain it? Their father is too busy with ghosts to notice the living exist.

_-i-_

Abbas is at prayer when Ali comes in. He ignores him, keeping focused on the holy act. He can hear Ali shuffling behind him, the sound of impatience, made magnified by the acoustics in the small side room where Abbas often goes to pray.

"Finally," says Ali the minute Abbas stands up. "This is _important_."

"Nothing is more important than prayer." Abbas can't help but wonder, if this thing—this thing he can't even admit to in his mind—if this thing Ali has contrived comes to pass and they together usher in a better world, will Ali then become a better person? Abbas can help him. The prayers, the behaviors, the peace in knowing even the Assassin's Order is smaller than God, Abbas can teach him all of this, and they can be true friends. Not like Rauf, weak little friendships that curdle at the first harsh word from others. They can be true Brothers, devoted to the Order and each other, like, say, like Malik and—

"It's all come together," says Ali. "We have to wait for the right moment, but that moment is so close."

"We'll be found out and killed long before it happens. With all the talk you've been doing, the secret messages you send. Nothing is secret here, I keep telling you."

"Who can kill a rumor? Or pinpoint where it started? It works best in a place of no secrets, don't you get it? And this place…I've found out something, Abbas, something fantastic. This whole Order is built on rotting wood and I know exactly what will send the termites into frenzy."

"All your snooping will be for nothing when they put your head on a pike."

"I've done almost nothing. The men do most of the work without realizing. They're _unhappy_ , I've told you."

"Oh, fine, unhappy, many people are unhappy, but unhappy enough to start a—"

The door behind Abbas opens. Malik, in full and majestic _Dai_ regalia, frowns in the doorway.

It's never a good thing to have Malik frowning at you. Abbas stares at Ali until the idiot lightens his grin.

Malik asks, "What are you doing in here?"

"The evening prayer," says Abbas. "As usual."

"I didn't realize you were devout," Malik says to Ali.

"Abbas is teaching me. It's good to have something to depend on, don't you think? Allah won't let you down even when your friends do. And your family."

Malik looks at the novice with no expression whatsoever. "We have the Brotherhood," he points out in a voice just as toneless. Abbas could cry.

"Yes. I'm learning about the Brotherhood too."

"How has your training been going?" Malik continues without waiting for an answer, "Normally we would have tested you for higher ranks already. Things have been distracted here."

Ali nods. "Of course. The Templars, the Mongols. People have been saying they're the same thing, is it true?"

"Assassins should only repeat worthwhile rumor," Malik says evenly. "That at least you should already know."

"Well, people _have_ been saying it. Between the Templars and your son, it's no wonder you're so busy. But you still have time to check up on this novice!" Ali is so cheerful he sounds practically deranged. "You must know _every_ thing," he says, and Malik might be Altair's whore but he's no fool. Surely he hears the taunt. It's only the door's creaking open that saves Ali's scrawny neck.

" _Dai?_ " says the black-hooded assassin peering inside. "It's the Grandmaster's wife. She's leaving. The Grandmaster wanted you to know…"

"Leaving?" Malik flashes his eyes at the man, once, then looks back at Ali and Abbas. Neither says anything, though Ali's still grinning and Abbas is hazy with uncertainty.

"Is she gone yet?" Malik asks the assassin. "Was this planned? Why am I only being told now?"

"I don't know, _Dai._ Master Altair didn't give me any details, he…but I think she's still here. In the courtyard, packing her things."

"She leaves alone or with Sef and Darim?"

"Alone."

"Fine." Malik waves the man off. His eyes are still brushing between the other two, but whatever answer he's after he seems not to find there. Finally he turns and lets them alone.

The minute the door shuts behind him, Ali bounds over to Abbas and takes him by the shoulders. "You see?" he hisses. "Soon they won't check up on you and call you _traitor_. Soon they'll bow to you as Master."

Abbas hears himself say, "And you? You'll stay with me?"

"Of course," Ali promises. "Until we both get what we want."

 _And what do you want?_ Abbas almost asks him. But the answer is clear already. Abbas wants respect, and piety, and he wants to save his Brotherhood from the depths to which it's fallen. Ali is his closest, his greatest friend. Even without being devout. Ali will stand with him. Ali will stand by him. Abbas is thankful, and assured.

_-i-_

Malik finds Maria in the courtyard as the journeyman said. She's brought a horse into the enclosure; it kicks a hoof against the cobblestone path as she ties bundles to its saddle. He watches her in silence, though from his first footfall her shoulders stiffened and he knew she realized he was there.

The silence stretches. The courtyard is empty except for the guards at its edges, the training ring barren of novices at work. When it becomes clear that she will let an hour go by in awkward quiet rather than be the first to speak, Malik shakes his head. His shoulder is aching again, in restless spasms. He rubs it, pressing fingers over the bumpy stitching. "You're leaving in a hurry," he says. "Where to?"

"Acre."

"You just returned from there."

"Altair and I decided there's more that needs to be done. I thought when I left that we had secured the city's bureau, but…" Maria sounds her normal practical self. Though there's something mottled in the way she says _Altair and I_. Something that could almost be a challenge. "You must have heard the rumors, Malik." He nods. "Something is brewing, not just in Acre. In every city. In every far-flung bureau, people are _talking_. And not just about the Mongols. About something coming from within."

"There have been rumors since the day Altair killed Al Mualim," Malik says. "Lately they've been louder, I agree. But what fool would stand against him? Look at how our numbers have grown in even the past two years. We've had sultans send emissaries, we've treated with kings. The Brotherhood is stronger now than it's ever been."

"But it doesn't feel like a Brotherhood. Not everywhere. And then there are the village raids—they keep happening, Malik, for all our forces, when the war is supposed to be over. And this business with the Mongols. The people are tired of war and we tell them another is coming, we tell them that a horde of furry barbarians who may or may not be Templars are going to loot and pillage except we don't really know why, so could they please still send us their sons?"

"The Mongols _are_ coming. And somehow I doubt it's to treat with us."

"I know. You're not wrong for siding with Altair. You're his second-in-command. It's to be expected."

There it is again: that undertone when she says his name, when she says _it's expected._ Malik listens to what she isn't saying, and he knows.

She says, "Whatever the future holds, we need Acre. Need their weapons and their bodies, and their port if we can ever get it fully reopened. And Acre trusts me. So I'm going."

"For how long?"

"As long as I'm needed. A month, a few months."

"It will be a shame not to have your skills closer at hand. It'd be nice if Altair let me know you were leaving."

"I'm sure he will eventually," Maria says primly. "Right now I think he's sulking."

Malik chuckles. "He does that."

Then again there is silence, though this time at least Maria's watching him. He thinks he sees something desperate in her gaze.

"Your children won't be happy. Darim especially. He's…he's needed a mother."

"I'll be back." She hesitates. "Thank you for watching out for him, before. Now that you've your own son I shouldn't ask you to do it again…"

"Of course I will. I couldn't trust Altair to do it alone," Malik says, but Maria is hardly listening.

"You've your own son," she repeats, faintly, and then she is fiddling with her horse's saddle again, readjusting the bundles if only to keep her hands busy and her face clear. "You do. And you have respect. Your name is Malik, not Maria, and everyone trusts you for it. And this has always been your home."

She's wrong, but Malik lets her believe it. Lets the wave froth and curl above his head. In a way he's been waiting for it since Maria first took off her Templar garb. It's almost a relief to see it come.

"You have everything," Maria says. "Is that not enough? Do you need my husband, too?"

Malik says, very gently, "My lady."

"Don't call me that." She whirls on him, eyes blazing. "I was a soldier! My father taught me from the moment I could speak how to fight for what was rightfully mine. It's not easy for women to challenge men. But I was a _Templar_. Do you know how hard it was to get them to accept me? To get Robert to look me in the eye?"

Malik swallows what he thinks of Robert. She says his name with unconscious tenderness. Perhaps it's true that she loved him.

"I did all that. And I've done it again here. And every second of every day I've faced down the rest of them, made them hear me, made them _listen_ to me. I've given Altair his children! Could you have done that?"

"It would have been difficult."

"It would have been impossible. It _is_ impossible! Altair—he doesn't look at me like the rest. I never had to grovel for his respect. I earned it! And he knows it's deserved." She shakes her head. "So did you. I thought you did."

"Maria," Malik says, "I've never doubted you deserved your position here. You've been a fine assassin. A loyal Brother."

"But that's not enough, is it?" Her eyes aren't wet…no, she isn't that sort of woman. If her lips are thinned and her cheeks pale but for two high spots of color, that shows her righteous fury, not her sadness. "Not enough for you to stop. Though you never treated me like the others did, though you made me think I was a part of this Order."

Malik puts his hand to the back of his head. "I wish I knew how to explain it to you," he says, "how to give you what you want," and it's true. He does.

" _Can't_ you? Just stop! Just leave him alone. I'm asking you, as his wife. As your sister-in-arms."

Malik casts his eyes about the courtyard. Rauf is in the training ring now, with some students, too far off to hear anything. From across the courtyard he scolds, "Don't throw your weapons about so carelessly."

The _Dai_ says, "I think you should talk to your husband."

"My husband." Maria smiles at him, says something in English that's too fast for him to catch. It strikes him at random moments, her foreign nature, her other-ness. It must do the same for Altair. It must drive him mad, to have someone in his arms he can't fully understand.

Or maybe it turns him on. Maybe that's why he's drawn to Malik, to the Apple of Eden. Maybe it's tiring for him, being so far ahead of the rest of the world.

" _My_ husband," says Maria. "Before God. In both religions. Without religion. But that doesn't stop you either."

Malik looks longingly back towards the main hall's wide window. This conversation is doomed to go in endless circles, and he won't-…

"I did talk to my husband about this," Maria says.

His stomach clenches, just for a moment. "I'm glad," he says, and is ready to turn his back on the whole thing, but Maria is smiling at him again, daring him to face her, and so he must.

"I asked him to set you aside. As his wife, as the mother of his children, I asked him to send you back to Jerusalem, or else remove you from the Order altogether. I told Altair I would never ask him for anything again if he would do this one thing, this one thing for the woman he chose. I told him we didn't need you, that others could take your place as his second." Her hands, fidgeting at the cuffs of her riding cloak, still. "He laughed at me," she says.

"Well. At least you got him to laugh."

"He said he doubted he could make you leave, or do anything else. And he said there was no one else who could replace you, not in the whole Order. He said even the Piece of Eden agreed with that."

"It's no joy to hear he discusses me with that thing. That's one thing I couldn't do, get him to put it down for longer than a day."

Maria says derisively, "Men and their golden toys. Robert was the same way. You'll fight wars over gold and land and magic tricks."

"And you wouldn't? If you knew what it could do?"

"I know what it does. It corrupts."

"Not in the way you're thinking. I'm sorry. It…Altair and I…this started long ago. Long before the Apple. Long before you. With or without it he would still…"

"Why tell me what I already know?" she interrupts. With her arms folded against her chest she taps her foot, considering. "I'm ready," she says. "I should leave while there's still light."

"Will you say goodbye to Sef and Darim before you go?"

"They'd hate me more for trying. I'll say goodbye to you, and let you pass it on to them."

"Oh, my lady, let me thank you for this kindness."

"I'm allowed some revenge, aren't I?" she shrugs. "Here, be a gentleman and help me on my horse."

Maria takes his hand with no consideration for his injury, allowing him to bear much of her weight as she swings her legs over her mount. Malik accepts the compliment.

She adjusts herself, lets the horse canter forwards a bit to settle the bags against its flanks. "I'll send word from Acre," she says, "and watch for word from here."

"I'll do my best to explain it to your sons. But don't linger there forever, Maria. It'll be worse for them the longer you're gone."

"So chivalrous," she laughs at him. "Tell the truth, you'd love it if I were to vanish forever."

"I don't believe in separating families," he grins back.

Maria trots her horse in a wide, messy circle. "You know," she calls to him, "I asked Altair something else, after he said he wouldn't send you away."

"Oh?"

"I asked him to kill you."

Malik looks at her.

"I told him I didn't understand what you were, or what you made him into. It's the truth. I told him about the rumors, which he's ignored like a real arrogant _fool_ , and I know you've heard _that_ gossip too. I told him how every time you look at him you blame him for…I don't, I can't understand it, Malik. Why he puts up with your looking at him the way you do. It's dangerous. You're dangerous. So I told him to do what any leader would have done."

She pulls her horse to a stop. "Well?" she says. "Don't you want to know what he said?"

"I'm still alive." Malik considers it. "No, I don't think I need to know what he said."

"It isn't fair," Maria says, "how much faith he puts in you."

"Nothing's fair. Not him, not me. Not you either. But I will protect him if I can, while he sacrifices himself to some orb to protect us all. That much I can promise you."

"Nothing else?"

Malik tries very, very hard to sound kind. "No," he says. "Nothing else."

Maria says nothing for a long moment.

"Safety and peace," he tells her. "Be safe on your journey."

She smiles at him for that, kicks her heels and sends the horse at a fast trot for the main gates. ""I want to spar with you next time I see you," she calls. "I think I'll try to kill you myself. I think I could."

"We'll see," Malik calls back. He lifts his hand in a wave, and holds it, until Maria rounds the road's bend and falls out of sight.


	8. Chapter 6

_**The Balance of Debt** _

"Master! By God, help!"

The sun is bright on the ground and bright on the man, and garish where it touches his bloody hands. The assassin is dressed not in the streamlined cuts of a messenger but the long robes and heavy weaponry of a guard. He tucks his bearded chin to his chest and crouches with exhaustion in the dust. The guards at Masyaf's main gate look on in apprehension; the villagers swarm by the market stalls in nervous bunches, no one buying or selling or even talking in more than murmurs.

It was common, in the depths of the wartimes, for assassins to stagger in half-dead. It isn't unheard of now. But this man finds the base of the path that curves up the cliff to the mountain, drops to his knees to hug the ground, and shouts murder and mayhem 'till all the village comes spilling from its huts.

Someone fetches Malik and a few of the higher-ranked scholars. No one needs to fetch Altair. He slips from a hut's shadows to stand in the center of the throng, and even as his men are saying someone should tell him he's pushing his way past.

"Master!" the man cries. "I came—I only barely made it, I alone—all this way—you must send help!"

Altair considers the assassin's wounds. His arms and forehead are cut, his lips cracked with thirst, but there's too much red on his tunic for all that.

"I come from Seljuk territory, from Izmir. Master, we were attacked."

Altair says, '"We'? The whole city? We've had no reports, no messages."

"Messages burn," cries the man, "and their bearers too. They knew exactly where to find us, Master, and they came in such numbers and…everything in their past they wiped out, all our defenses, all the people of our area. And that was a fraction of their army. I saw them as I was fleeing, a great mass, it was…it was more men than in all of Europe spread out on the flatlands, waiting for orders! I, I slipped away, I…somehow…"

Altair feels the eyes, assassin and civilian, pressing at his back. Al Mualim would never have allowed it. Al Mualim did his work in private so no one would see him fret. But Malik scolds Altair enough as it is for hiding away.

"Who are they?" he demands of the man. Shameful, really! that an assassin would in public clutch the earth and weep. "Templars?"

"Mongols!"

The crowd draws a collective breath.

"They were looking for us. They _are_ looking for us. A whole army. And their general is fiercer than seven Saladins combined."

Malik steps forward, enough to separate from the crowd, though he keeps behind Altair. "Why were they searching for us?" he asks. "Did they say? What were their demands?"

"I don't know, Lord, they were, they wanted something. Not just our territory, our coffers, but something else. I don't know what. Some secret weapon."

Altair's ears pick the whisper from the breeze. _Secret weapon,_ it sighs. _Isn't that what our Grandmaster hides? You've heard the stories? You were there? You remember the day when Brother slew Brother, with minds of mush and eyes of fog? Yes, you remember that. The Grandmaster said such a weapon should be destroyed._

Altair will not stand for gossip. "The Mongols are Templars," he says, loud enough for all to hear. "They want what the Templars have always wanted, to rule over mankind, to make our choices for us. The Mongol leader, Genghis Khan…he expects us to fear him. But de Sablé had an army also, and little good it did him."

"And Al Mualim? What of his army?"

Altair turns, but the speaker is lost in the throng. It's easier to lose the man than the words: the mood has gone wrong in the crowd, has shifted imperceptibly from worry to a different agitation. Malik scans the crowd, his hand crooked on his wrist. He's fiddling with the hilt of a throwing knife, Altair knows, something he does only when uneasy.

The assassin at Altair's feet says, "Please, Master, before the whole area is overrun. Please send men to fight them. Kill their leader like you killed the Templar leaders before him. Kill him if you mean to save us!"

"I will not leave the village—"

"Then you don't want to save us," calls the voice.

Again Altair turns, but Malik is on it, ducking through the crowd. Three dozen faces, or more, watch him hunt out the assassin who would contradict the Master in public. Altair feels the familiar warmth, seeing him do this, seeing him so openly choose a side.

The others, many of them, have hooded eyes and curled lips, but Altair doesn't care. So long as _Malik's_ lip isn't curling it's no danger to him.

("Save us," says the ghost, picking its cheery way through the crowd, standing at the wounded man's shoulder and adding bloodstains to its uniform.)

"I won't leave Masyaf," he says, though he yearns to do it, yearns to have only _this one kill_ in front of him, and his thoughts only on all the ways in which a man may die. Between an assassin and his target, how can there be betrayal? Death was impartial for him once, his skills a fair decider. Dead men did not double-cross.

"I won't leave the heart of the Brotherhood unattended unless there is no other way. Khan will die. But well-defended as he is, he must be praying for the Assassin Grandmaster to walk into his trap. Let him come closer, let him trip over his own deceit. Then we'll strike."

"That is an excuse!" a new voice exclaims.

A second person: "More people will die while you wait."

A third, this one an assassin: "He doesn't care. He's never cared about them."

Altair can't see Malik through the throng any longer, but he wonders if the _Dai_ isn't about to laugh. It _sounds_ like an excuse. Altair has walked into many a trap, and gone out the other end wreathed with entrails and smiling. Malik must be laughing. But then, that is his right. Malik alone may call him foolish, or afraid.

(Because he was both those things, then, with only Malik there to see. Because he can't be both those things _now_ , when the Order is scared and seething in his grasp, pinning him with pairs of eyes as sharp as the dagger Malik keeps tucked in his sleeve.)

"If they've burned that city they'll burn the rest! What of Kapısuyu?" This voice is recognizable. Ali has pushed his way to the front, Abbas his glowering shadow as is typical these days.

Grey Ali. Unimportant Ali. Abbas behind him flares red, so red that Altair sees it even when he isn't using his Eagle's Vision: but that is nothing new. Hasn't Abbas been red since they were children? Since Al Mualim bent before a boy of six and said, "You have a talent, child. You have been chosen. You can see the truth and never be wrong."

"You have to protect Kapısuyu," Ali moans, squeaky with fright. Altair never trusts men who smile, but Ali is undeniably scared. "My family is there. Please, go, Grandmaster. Please, with your best men!"

"Enough," Altair says, and waves his hand. Stares at Ali until he settles down. "I will send help for the Izmir bureau." And he gives names that he knows will impress, several of them, throwing them like knives into the crowd. His best successes, his most dedicated fighters. Assassins who will kill for Grandmaster Altair. He gives these names to show that he can. The eyes watching him soften. He will force from them their trust.

 _I am the Master,_ he says. _And you may not doubt me._

_-i-_

Malik finds him, later, buried in the village.

"Hiding?" he asks lightly, dropping beside Altair on the bench. "Or eavesdropping, is my guess."

"The novices are nervous. They know this means a war."

"There are always wars, and nervous novices to fight them." Malik nods across the courtyard, where a woman in a purple headscarf and silver-cuffed robe is sweeping. "Better the novices than them. We train the novices. And if you do have to go with them…"

"Not yet."

"I'd think you'd be eager for the chance to do what you love."

"Something is wrong. I can't tell what."

"For one, I don't think it was the whole Mongol army that attacked Izmir. We've had no warnings, no scouts' reports, not to mention no refugees. Probably just their own best-picked men making enough noise to scare off guards at a quiet post."

"So then I was right not to go myself. If the war isn't actually here yet."

"Doubting yourself?"

"No," he snaps. Then he frowns. "But others were. You heard them."

Malik says, "I heard them. And I have one of them running laps up and down the river stairs until he breaks an ankle."

" _Tamaam."_

" _Aafwaan_. Try not to push him if you see him. Wouldn't do for the Master to lose his temper."

"Hypocrite."

"I'm not the Master. And you were right not to rise to it, before. Let them see you lead, not doubt. 'We work in the dark', etcetera."

"Sage advice. What are you really here for?"

"To tell you it was a wise decision you made. The men you're sending are good fighters and trustworthy. Whoever's attacking Izmir, they'll handle it."

"Compliments without curses? From you?"

Malik huffs. "Also you're a donkey who should never have reproduced."

"Better."

"I heard Darim asked you if he could also be sent to Izmir."

"Who told you?"

"He did himself. Because afterwards he came to me, hoping I'd override your answer. I didn't, of course. But, Allah's sake, Altair, did you really laugh at him when he asked?"

"He's a boy barely grown into his cowl, wanting to go with my best assassins to battle our greatest enemy. Send a boy to deal with Templars? Laughable. So I laughed."

"I remember once a boy sent himself to deal with Templars," says Malik softly. "He had an angry friend who should have said no but didn't, and the two of them got into so much trouble."

"And that boy came back without a scratch. Without a bruise." Altair touches his lip. "We can't say the same for his friend. A lot of trouble for infamy."

"But that boy would have done anything for infamy. And his friend would have done anything to help. He didn't realize it then, but it's true."

Altair stands up. "The friend was a fool," he says, "the boy a bigger one. Or have you forgotten the scars on your back?"

(The ghost, sitting quietly on the bench at Malik's side, bobs its head. Grins when it sees Altair looking, and flicks its hand as though it held—a whip.)

"Try not to pity yourself," says Malik tiredly, "because it's sort of nauseating."

"You want me to send my son to your fate?"

"I didn't say to send him. I said not to laugh."

"It wasn't Darim's place to ask!"

"You love fighting and you used to trample all over Al Mualim's rules. Your son is you with a different name, don't you see that? Altair, what are you _looking_ at?"

"What do you know? Your son is a baby still. Your son is hardly _yours_."

Malik, who hasn't risen from the bench, tilts his chin upwards to glare at Altair. The glare, withering though it is, means this is a well-worn battle. Sometimes Altair thinks he picks fights not to win them but to tramp on ground he knows.

Malik says, "My son is my son. And when he asks me as a boy if he can fight Templars, I'll tell him no, but I won't _laugh_. I won't drive him to do exactly what I don't want. Darim wants to please you, _hmar._ And he'll do things he shouldn't if he thinks that's what it'll take."

He rises. "And you? I think you've forgotten something worse than my scars. You've forgotten that I've been at your side since we were children, and I know how you are. Be as nasty as you'd like to me. It means the same as it meant whenever you taunted Kadar. If you fear it, if you don't know what to make of it, you push it away. You know the Brotherhood so well, Son of None, but you don't know your Brothers. And you don't know your sons."

"I won't indulge them," Altair says. "I won't lose them." _I won't suffer as you did._

"No, you don't indulge much."

Twilight has made way for evening and the sweeping woman has left. Masyaf is quiet, holding its breath. Malik takes a step away but Altair slips after him, ghost-like. "Come tonight," he says. Feeling eyes on his back.

"Not tonight."

"What, even _you_ will disobey your Master?"

Malik stops short and points a warning finger. "Not tonight. For years we hardly nodded at each other and suddenly in the last six months…" Then he softens: "Next week, I might. To hear of news from Izmir."

"Next week," says Altair, and feels his shoulders lift. Next week, then, they'll be alone, because their coupling makes _it_ skittish.

("Next week," says the ghost, unusually somber.)

_-i-_

Early in the evening, in that dusk-purple of fading sun, and Malik is sitting curled up around the _hookah_ pipe, exchanging breath for the smoke in his lungs, enjoying the buzz of it in his body, the scratch of it in his throat. The lighting is poor, the room cramped, the candles half-drowned by the smoke, but with the ceiling draped with red fabric and the floor buried by plush cushions, it reminds him of Jerusalem. Of the little entrance hall in every bureau, stacked with pillows, equipped with loose stones to store gauze and salve, and a fountain for washing up. He's spent a lot of his adult life in one bureau or another, like any assassin, and he misses the quiet of the one that was his.

But there are some moments that are enough to sooth the yearning. This room is familiar, and because it's built off Altair's quarters no other assassin may enter without invitation. It's been a while since Malik was invited, but the coals are lit and the smoke sweet, and he shrugs off his outer robes in comfort before passing the pipe along.

 _Argileh_ ought to be a communal activity, which is probably why Altair's never been any good at it. He either hogs the pipe or forgets to take it back, either lets the coals burn out or the tobacco run low, and he's terrible at the aimless conversation of sated men. He glowers. He picks fights. Once he knocked the pipe over and set a very expensive rug ablaze. Malik's stopped inviting him to village gatherings—the people should see their leader, but Altair isn't really the peasants' leader. He can't be. He doesn't like them.

"This is a waste of time," he says now, though leaning back on his hands he's without his usual bombast.

"You invited me last week," Malik points out, and takes another drag. "I'll enjoy your hospitality, also your food, for as long as you offer it."

Altair eyes the plate by his side, empty but for crumbs and smears of fruit rind. "Should I send for more?"

"If you want."

"I don't."

Malik hands him the pipe. "Then don't." He smiles. "If only all our problems could be solved so quickly. Have you heard yet from Maria?"

"No." Altair's bluntness warns off the conversation. Malik tries a different route:

"How are Darim and Sef? I haven't had time to see them much myself-…"

"Maria was needed on Order business and the Order always comes first. My sons know that. And if they didn't I wouldn't cosset them for their self-pity."

Order business? A half-truth, or barely that. But if Altair knows that Malik knows the other half, he isn't saying.

"Fine. Let us sit here and eat pastries," Malik says lightly, though it doesn't do much for the Grandmaster's scowl.

"The pastries were too dry. And it took more than an hour to get them."

"Angered the cooks, have you?"

"And the messengers." Now Altair frowns for good reason. "I sent a novice with a message about the Izmir situation for the _Rafik_ in from Damascus. It wasn't received. The boy swears he delivered it, the _Rafik_ swears he never saw it."

"Who do you believe?"

"The message was a test, Malik. This isn't the first to have gone astray from that novice. I wasn't sure if he was incompetent, or a traitor. Now I think he's an incompetent being led by other traitors. "

"If you're not going to smoke, pass me back the pipe. You get it all sweaty rolling it in your fingers."

"Did you hear me?"

"We have a traitor. Or a group of them. Or something else. I heard you. Have you used your second sight?"

Altair stares at a tiny singe-mark on the carpet, caused by a loose coal. "It isn't always so clear…"

"What do you mean? You've always been able to use it for hours without a headache."

"That isn't it. Sometimes I think it's less a gift for the talented and more a trick of overconfident minds. We see what we want to see."

"Altair?"

The Grandmaster looks up at him, eyes pensive. "Why should there be liars and rebellions now? The last we heard the Mongols were still far away. We still had time. The war is ending, the Templars are on retreat. Every powerbroker in the Levant knows to play fair or deal with us. And all this under my command. But now Genghis Khan sacks my territory and journeymen question me to my face. Meanwhile any moment now we should hear back from the men I sent to Izmir and yet some of the _Dais_ tell me they haven't heard anyone ever left. Why…?"

Malik shrugs. "There are always liars and rebellions. They follow the scent of real leadership like vultures after an army."

"There weren't any under Al Mualim."

"Maybe there should have been. Besides, what do you call what you did?"

He means it as a joke. A compliment, even. But Altair stiffens so sharply his spine cracks. "I was never a traitor," he snaps. "Master Al Mualim was. I was never a Templar, and I never—what I did was a mistake—"

"I know, Altair. I didn't mean anything by it." Malik holds out the pipe as a peace offering, but Altair is darkly withdrawn, pulled back into himself.

"I don't care if others want to scoff. What do they know? But for my own vanity I'd prefer if _you_ kept silent."

Malik says, "You were never a traitor," and jabs the pipe into the man's closed fist until the Master has no choice but to take it. "All your life you've been hounded by bitter, jealous men. Why listen to one over all the others?"

"You don't give yourself enough credit. We both know what you think, what you said in—"

"Jerusalem was _a long time ago_ ," Malik bites out. "I hardly recognize either one of those men. Or remember what they _whined about_."

"You call it whining? I call it truth. Your truth. For all the years since I've had it beating inside my head."

"Oh, give me some credit to know my own thoughts! I've had plenty of time to remember, Altair, you're not the only one. And at a distance what I thought were flaws in your character look a lot like flaws in my own." Malik takes the pause to lean forward, brush his lips against the Master's. It's almost familiar, at this point, to feel another man's bristled cheek against his own.

"You are not a traitor," he says. "You were stupid and big-headed and you're still the most impatient novice I've ever had to suffer, but never a traitor. Though it would have been easier for me if you were." They stare at each other, at such a close angle it's almost uncomfortable, and Malik is delighted to think the Son of None might blush or babble.

Instead Altair grabs Malik's hand, presses it roughly to his crotch. "Big-headed, eh? I thought that's what you liked."

To his credit Malik babbles not a moment and blushes hardly at all. He pulls his black robes onto his shoulders, draws himself up to his feet, shoulders set and feet spread, frowning regally as a king—and steps on the forgotten plate of pastry crumbs with a _squelch_ of fruit under his heel.

Altair snickers.

Malik peels the plate off his boot. "I think I _will_ ask for more pastries," he says, "if only to cram them down your throat."

The Grandmaster's quarters are secluded but guarded; in Al Mualim's day half a dozen men could be found surrounding the wing, but Altair is too proud and has only a couple assassins watching his door. Usually. Now, as Malik steps out into the hall to ask one of them to send for a messenger-boy, he finds it empty. No white-robed, white-masked figures with heavy swords in callused hands.

He walks down the hall, to where it forks, looks right and left. No one. He walks further still, into a wider stretch, which should be bustling yet isn't. The fortress is deserted.

Malik raises an eyebrow. There should be assassins everywhere, running errands, trying to report on missions to the Master. There should be a crowd of men oceans' deep outside Altair's door, fighting for his attention. And there should be the Grandmaster's guard keeping order. Malik thinks on those men, recalling their names…he can taste the bad omen in the stuffy air. But Altair's guards are chosen carefully by Malik himself. He knows they're dependable. It would take a lot to overtake such men. It would take…

He turns at the footsteps coming towards him. "Ah," he says to the journeyman approaching, "Finally, a sign of life in this place." The journeyman is dressed in grey and red, the usual attire, but also shields his face with an informer's cloth mask. Malik searches the man's hazel eyes, unable to recognize him, trying to remember which journeymen are being trained as informers and if any of them belong in Masyaf and not their trainer's assigned city. "It doesn't bode well," he says slowly, skeptically, "the quiet here. Can't you talk?"

The journeyman's eyes are pained, his fingers stuttering against his hip.

"The Grandmaster's rooms are unguarded," Malik says. "It's disgraceful. You, what's your name? I need to send a message…"

The journeyman's sword swings out in a wild arc. Malik cuts to one side, uses the plate in his hand as a makeshift shield. The journeyman looks perplexed when his sword bites into soft tin and not soft flesh, and looks frightened when Malik dips under his arm, yanking the split tin free in the same motion. He jabs once at the _Dai_ , then again, messy, exhausting thrusts, both hands tight on the grip. Malik sidesteps, clucks his tongue against the back of his teeth.

"Don't let your blade lead you around. You shouldn't have to pray you'll hit me, you should _know_." The journeyman pauses, arms trembling. "And that sword is too heavy for you. The quartermaster wasn't thinking. Well?" Malik slows. "Stop quivering! You can't take back a punch to a Templar's gut. You chose to attack me, so follow through! Even traitors can fight."

"I'm not a traitor," the man cries. "I obey the true Assassin Master…!" And he lunges, taking too long a stride in his haste.

Malik ducks his blow, steps to the man's front before he can recover and smacks him in the face with the sharp scrap of tin. Cut across his eye, the journeyman yowls in recoil; Malik clucks his tongue again and follows him, slashes his sword arm with the bloody tin so that the sword clatters to the stone, and kicks it out of its owner's reach. Then, tired of fooling, he drops the tin and punches the man in the jaw.

The journeyman hits the wall and slides down it, a pitiful bundle of spit and broken teeth. "Show me your face," Malik orders, and when the man only shudders and doesn't respond, pulls the sodden cloth off himself. The dark face that stares back is so young it's never needed a shave, so raw there are terrified tears on its cheeks.

Malik says, "I know you. A _Dai_ in Egypt sent you here for more training a year ago. I remember that. But you're a novice. I thought as much from your swordwork."

The boy flushes. "That's not what he told me," he says. "He said I was a _good_ fighter and that we'd all be promoted—that we'd all really get what we deserved when the real Master took over—instead of the traitor who stole the throne!"

"What traitor? What throne? Why speak as if you know what happened? You weren't even _born_."

"He said we should all dress the same," the boy mumbled. "So we'd know. And 'cause we deserved it. The real Master doesn't hog all the praise for himself and his lackeys."

Malik kneels in front of the boy and leans in very close. Close enough that the boy can feel his breath on his neck and shiver. "Who is _he_? Is it Abbas? This feels like his idiocy."

"Don't insult the Master!"

Malik slips a dagger between his fingers and presses it to the boy's throat. The novice quivers and falls back, but there's still a flash of defiance fighting with the fear in his eyes. Malik has no intentions of actually killing the kid, as pathetic as he is, but only one of them knows that. And he makes sure his steel catches the light.

"Listen to me very closely," he says. "I am the _Dai_ of Jerusalem. I've had sultans writhing on the ground with my daggers in their kneecaps, and I've slit the throats of kings and not thought once about it after. I've killed more men than you have years. _Do you hear me_? You are not strong and you are not powerful, you are not some mighty warrior, you're hardly even a traitor. You are young and stupid, and I have patience for the young and stupid, but if you don't answer my questions I will decide you are a traitor after all. You don't want be a traitor, if you love your eyes and fingers. Well? _Do you_?"

The boy has his eyes shut. He swallows, sinking back from the dagger at his throat, and whispers, "Yes."

" _Who is he_? Whose orders are you following? Abbas?"

"T-The Master is too busy to…I mean, it wasn't him who…he's working with…"

"Who? What Templar has he fallen in with now?"

But the boy works his swollen jaw and bursts out, "It's all lies! You're the evil ones, not the Templars. That's what they told us! Altair sold his soul to Satan, and all _you_ did was...you're a cripple and a coward. You let your brother die so you could keep being the Son of None's faggot!"

Malik stiffens. "What?"

"You can't spit on the Brotherhood anymore, you can't ignore us just 'cause we're novices. We're going to save the Order from you traitors, just like Ali said."

"Ali? Listen, you little fool…"

"I'm not a fool!" the boy shrieks. "I'm an assassin! _Ali said we'd get what we deserved_!" And like any novice, any child who's watched his betters and thinks himself their match, the boy lifts a shoulder and tries to break free. But no one's taught him this move. Instead of knocking the dagger aside he only thrusts himself awkwardly to the side, off-center and off-balance, and Malik, incredulous, tries to pull his hand out of the way but the boy catches him off-guard.

The knife's edge spears the boy and parts the skin tenderly as a man parts his lover's hair. Blood spurts, the blade halfway gone, halfway inside a boy who opens his mouth to howl and scares himself with his own frog's croaking. Blood spurts over the _Dai's_ wrist and chest. "Stop moving!" he bellows, trying to hold the knife steady, afraid that if he drops it it'll gore the novice completely, "stop moving and I'll pull it out, it's a shallow thing, stop-" because a man can live with a cut throat if the cut can be kept from certain areas, certain depths, if the blood can be staunched a man can survive, but this isn't a man at all, just a boy who sobs and in his animal panic tries to stand and only rips the knife in further down.

Malik reaches out to hold him still with an arm that isn't there.

In the space of nothing, in a measly five seconds it happens: the soft throat, the artery against the blade.

The boy, sprawled out in his ridiculous journeyman robes—they don't even fit!—gurgles and twitches, wide-eyed. Malik throws the knife away and presses his hand to the bubbling wound.

He has done this before, felt the warm blood pump through his fingers, seen the white creep into the lips. He has waited while the blood turned sluggish and thick, and like a fool called it the body healing. He has watched the thrashing turn to panting turn to muscles spasming their last, then locking into place. He's carried the flaking brown tack under his fingernails for days.

_You're an assassin, right? You can bear it._

Malik lets the boy stare at him, then through him. The little fool, hurling himself into a knife blade, what was it he'd killed himself to say? Ali said…?

The fortress isn't silent any longer; he can hear shouting in the distance, from beyond the thick stone. Malik leaves the body where it is, tugs his black robes to cover some of the bloodstains on the white, and unsheathes his sword.

"Assassins killing assassins!" he says. "A waste!"

The hall to Altair's rooms is still empty, but his door is smashed. Malik steps over the wreckage, sees the sparse furniture thrown about and Altair in the middle of it, cowl raised, jaw locked. Three men—no, four—lie at his feet. Two are groaning, one is unconscious, and one will never groan again. All are wearing masks.

"Altair," says Malik. "Abbas has corrupted the novices. He…" Altair grunts, looking at him, tracing the bloodstains with his eyes. Then he stalks over and starts tracing them with his hands. Malik bats him aside, impatient. "Stop, it's not mine."

The Grandmaster steps back. Nods. "They came barreling in here, calling me turncoat," he says. "Shouting their allegiance to Abbas." He frowns. "I think they've killed my guards. Those men deserved to die for a cause with honor. The day his mother kept him instead of the afterbirth was the last time Abbas had any."

"It's not only Abbas. This is too well-planned for him. The boy in the hallway, he said his orders came from Ali-…but those men aren't novices." Malik stares at the assassins Altair's beaten. One of them he recognizes as an instructor of some skill, about to be assigned to Damascus's bureau. Another, Altair has pointed out as someone with Master Assassin potential. "I thought it was only…"

"Who said anything about novices?"

"I can see Abbas tricking the novices with grand promises and pretty uniforms. Men like these wouldn't fall for it."

Altair says calmly, "Men like these believe I am a traitor."

"He can't have gotten to the entire Order, not so quickly."

"Come on," says Altair, tosses his head. It seems laughable, looking at him now, that anyone should think they could pry the Grandmaster's robes from his frame. His rank is molded to him, burned to his skin. He leads the way out of the room, out of the hall, to a set of doors that open onto a balcony large enough for two to stand if they angle it right. From here they can look out on the main courtyard, the fortress walls and the village beyond.

From nowhere the fighting has erupted, and it is everywhere at once.

The courtyard is awash with Brothers fighting Brothers, but no longer are the blows kept to the ring, and no longer are they for practice. Bodies litter the ground, men curled up on themselves, men stretched out and staring. This is not the first time violence has reached the heart of the Order, but to see it carried out by assassins-! Those aren't Englishmen dead under the sun, and those aren't Templar crosses on their chests.

"Fuck," says Altair, but he says it almost without feeling. "How did Abbas stir this up so fast?"

"It must have been brewing…we knew _something_ was brewing but not what…" Malik risks a look at the Grandmaster. He is furious, to be certain, white-lipped with it, but he leans his whole body towards the fighting and his hidden blade pops out between his fingers, slides away, pops out again. He is _excited_. Cooped up in his fortress controlling other men is not what he loves, and Malik is reminded looking at him now that what he loves has never been a person. He trusts war, he works well in it. And, perhaps feeling neglected, war has come to find him.

"Come on," says Malik. "We have to get down there. You have to rally the men."

"Which men? They are all my men. How will I trust anyone to fight for me?"

"The masks. The novice I killed mentioned they were all dressed alike, probably to tell themselves apart. Anyone whose uniform doesn't call for a mask is a traitor."

"Fine," says Altair. Malik slides out of the little balcony, to let Altair pass, but the eagle of Masyaf has other ideas. He jumps onto the railing with easy grace that belies his age, balances, tracks the mayhem below with those predator's eyes, and leaps.

Malik rushes to the railing. It's four stories to the ground below, and there aren't any piles of hay below. Altair, however, doesn't need hay. He lands on a masked assassin, rolling them both over on the ground with the force of the fall, and when he slides back to his feet he does so alone and his hidden blade is red to the hilt.

"The Master is here," someone cries.

"Altair!"

"The Master!"

"Kill the traitor!"

Malik, still separate from the fighting, tries to think. The fighting is spread out past the fortress, into the village, and that means civilians are involved. How many assassins were born in Masyaf? How many might have siblings, parents, friends, come rushing out to defend them? Has Abbas warned his men not to touch the villagers? Somehow Malik doubts it.

Damn it all, how _many_ are his men? The battle seems even-matched, with loyal assassins perhaps the stronger force, but not by much. And here, in the Order's heart, they should be the strongest. They should overwhelm. The fools, Malik rages, the sheep, they kill their Brothers because Altair hurts their pride! When he saved the Brotherhood! When he saved them all!

Altair finds purchase on an overturned cart, spears a man through the gut (it is no different killing Brothers, Malik knows. He's done it before and the earth never quakes), stands with his robes cutting at his knees, and says in a roar that they will have heard in Damascus, "I am the Grandmaster of the Assassin Brotherhood. You will not challenge me. Lay your swords down now and live, or else I suggest you run."

No one listens, of course. But it's a good speech. Malik nods.

He thinks again of the villagers, the border guards who will be wondering what has happened, the many novices who are in no position to handle this fight. Discovering the depths of Abbas's folly (are the other cities secure? are the Templars involved?) will have to wait. For now Altair must defend his position at the center, and Malik must support him from the background once again.

He leaves the balcony, runs for a staircase he knows that will lead him to a back courtyard, and from there the main hall. It and its secrets, its paperwork, its back garden, must be secured. But before he can reach the stairs he sees a masked man lunge for him out of the corner of his eye. His palm slides up the grip of his sword to the cross-guard, and he butts the pommel into the man's stomach, then brings down the blade on the back of the man's neck. But the dull edge, and though the man collapses he still breathes.

There is no difference in killing Brothers, but oh, it is a shame.

Again he runs for the stairs and again there are assassins to get in his way. Again and again he slices off limbs or into stomachs, no stealth here, and he has the added burden of remembering to guard his left side. Some men he knocks unconscious, but some he has no choice but to kill. And though Malik has trained to the brink of collapse for just such a reason, his arm is beginning to ache.

The hall curves left towards the doorway he wants, but beyond a door to the right he hears, "If you are not with us you are against us!" and moves that way instead. The door leads him to a wide room filled with chairs and bookshelves, all tipped over and in splinters now: a scholar's workspace. No less than six masked men are trying to bash their way through another door, heavy wood, on the room's far side. One of them hangs back, and when Malik enters he is saying, "But this is not the Creed…"

"You heard what the Master said, a traitor's a traitor," grunts another. "Everything's permitted. You little bastards, open up!"

"Stop," says Malik. The six all turn to look. In their haste to rush him they get in each other's way and he picks them off with ease—swords are his namesake but throwing knives his specialty, and he has worked around his disability so that he doesn't need to put his sword away to aim his daggers well. Four find their marks, one misses. They _are_ assassins, though, and it takes some time to bring them all down.

The sixth man, alone among the survivors, cowers against the wooden door, arm dangling and useless with a dagger protruding from the bicep. "Move," Malik tells him, and he scurries to the side.

Malik bangs on the door, hears a gasp and a whisper, cracks at it until the handle breaks and the door peels open. With his sword at the ready he peers into what turns out to be a darkened closet space, hardly big enough for the four novices crammed shoulder-to-shoulder inside. For a second they stare at each other, the Order's second and the novice assassins: young boys all of them, one blond, one dark-skinned with light blue eyes, two freckled and obviously related. They have short swords out but the blades shake so badly they practically hum, and only one of them is holding his correctly.

"…My lord?" whispers one of them, recognizing the robes. "What's happening?"

Malik tastes his anger in metal flakes on his tongue. "Assassins kill children? This is what you leaned from the Creed? Then we have failed for real—" Rage turns him around and he would strangle the assassin…but the man has fled without a sound while Malik's back was turned, leaving nothing but a spot of blood. Malik lets out a noisy breath. Tricky, fighting men who've learned the same tricks.

"My lord? They said, they said there was a new Grandmaster, and they said…"

"Run," Malik tells them. "Take the back stairs out of the fortress and the trail to the river. Follow it away from Masyaf to the next—no, not the next village, it's too close. Go past the last watchtowers, then wait for orders. And if you see other novices, or villagers, tell them to do the same."

"But I've never left Masyaf," wails the novice with blue eyes, at the same time as the older of the freckled boys says he's an assassin and wants to stay to fight.

Malik says, "This is your first mission. The Brotherhood counts on you."

He watches them scurry out, gnawing at his inner lip. There, he has his answer. Those who are not _for_ Abbas are _against_ him. Villagers, novices, old scholar greybeards. A true coup. And should he win, who then would he cull? Would he have _Sunni_ flee from _Shi'a_? Christian from Muslim? Would he bother to fight Templars as has always been the Brotherhood's mission, or would he forget himself in his own grudges? The women of the Master's garden, the women of the nearby brothel, any man who has ever called Altair a friend…

_He must not win._

Someone in the hallway screams.

The novices are bunched together, still steps off from the stairs, and a massive man, arms rippled with muscle, flat face drenched in beard, approaches them from the stairwell wielding an axe. An _axe_ , of all things. He's dressed not in assassin garb but in a black _djellaba_ and heavy boots. Malik swears and only just manages to make the axe hit his blade and not the blond novice's skull. The force sends him staggering, rips the sword from his hand. The human monster lifts his axe above his head and hurtles it down towards Malik's head.

Malik ducks underneath it, drops to his knees, wrenches his short blade from its sheath and stabs up, aiming along the pointed crook of his elbow. It bites into the man deep, but such a monster won't be felled by one blow and that axe is too much for any sword to deflect. One of the novices picks up Malik's sword but can barely heft it off the ground. "Master," he cries.

"Run," Malik shouts at them again, and then gags at the knee in his stomach that throws him back. His whole body contracts with pain and a swell of stomach acid rolls past his teeth. At the last second he manages to stumble onto his feet before he falls. The mountain lumbers for him, grinning a blackened smile: Malik hits him twice with knives, in his throat and cheek, grabs his sword back from the novice and chops off the man's hand.

Only when he is sure the man has bled out does he let himself drop to one knee. His stomach feels like it's been punched out his back. The novices, frightened, cluster at his shoulder. "The stairs," Malik starts to say, but then he hears voices coming from that direction, and footfalls, and more screams.

"To the main courtyard," he coughs out. "Down the other way. Quickly!" He pushes himself to his feet and follows after.

"Who _was_ that?" the blond novice asks him, clearly frightened by the sheer size of the axe.

"No assassin," says Malik grimly. "I need to tell the Grandmaster," he says, distracted, telling himself that he would know already if Altair had been brought down.

"Where is the Grandmaster? We really need him…" The novice stammers out a laugh. "I thought for a minute that you might be him…?"

"Me? No, I…have you ever _seen_ Master Altair?"

A shrug. "Once or twice, in the back of a crowd. Never close." The others murmur agreement. "Lord? Why are you making that face?"

"Never mind," Malik tells him. "We reap what we sow!"

Through the fortress they hurry, to the courtyard, in a maelstrom of violence that follows them wherever they go. Several times they must stop to clear the way, and the novices help as best they can but Malik knows he can't guard them forever. Blood slicks his hand and face. Finally they find the ground floor, and a door out. Malik takes it at a run, thrusts his sword through a masked man's shoulder blades before he thinks to turn around, and lets the momentum carry them both outside, where if anything the chaos is worse. Men fight in groups, two or three against three or four. It's painfully obvious that while the masked men know their uniform, the others are still confused. An assassin grabs at a friend for support only to have that friend break his neck. The confusion spreads fright, as men turn 'round in circles unsure of who to fight.

"Brother!" men yell. "Comrade! Traitor! No!"

Among the bodies littering the cobblestones are several older men, scholars too far removed from swordfights, and Malik can only hope the rest were able to hide. He recognizes the corpse of one of Rauf's assistant instructors, stretched out over the side of the training ring, belly gaping. The man's face is masked, but his uniform always calls for a mask, so who knows which side killed him, or why.

Who he doesn't see is Altair, or Abbas for that matter. Thankfully none of the novices are panicking, a testament to their schooling, and he starts to lead them around the outskirts of the battle, hoping for a clearer path past the walls. They get five steps and then a man falls screaming from above and dies at Malik's feet.

The _Dai_ looks up and sees, on the wall's thick ramparts, a scattering of dead guards, a larger rush of living ones, and Altair in the center, calmly hacking his way through.

Some men stand with him, to defend their Master, and he lets them. Others approach as if to assist but are treated like the enemy and slaughtered. And not all of those are wearing masks. "What are you doing?" Malik yells to him, pointless for his voice is swallowed by the din. "How can you tell exactly who to kill?"

But it's the blond novice, gazing upwards with naked awe, who answers. "His eyes," the boy breathes, eyes shining. Behind him his friends are watching Altair slay three men at once, slack-jawed with shock. "It's his eyes, Lord. Everyone says the Master can see things the rest of us can't. He can read minds!"

"His eyes?" _His Eagle's Vision?_ Stunned himself, Malik squints. The courtyard descends into a mass of writhing red-on-blue, veins running through a heaving base like a pustule spread wetly over the courtyard, flecked in spots by the grey of the background world. The red seethes and it's hard to make out distinct forms within its agitated churning. For every blue figure there are two red blurs closing in—and, God, the headache Malik gets from using second sight! He drags it out another second and then has to let it drop.

Could Altair possibly fight with it? Is he able to keep it on for so long without strain?

The crowd on the rampart has thinned and Altair takes off down the stone pathway. "Where is he going?" the blue-eyed novice cries.

"To the village," Malik says. "And we will follow. Stay close!"

Though he wanted to reach the main hall the novices have become his priority, and he leads them through the courtyard at a pace that makes him grit his teeth. So many men! So many blasted _mercenaries_ , for that is what they are, unchecked barbarians, crushing the skulls of the injured and disarmed. Malik fights to kill now, because there's no time left for sympathy. Not when Altair is headed for the village, and for the carnage he must have seen from up top that drew him out. The _Dai_ knows his robes are recognized, and his face, and his missing arm: he knows that's why men come at him one after another, to wear him down. The novices are defending him by now as much as he defends them. They're quick learners, and there's no other way.

Occasionally he flashes the second sight, to choose a direction, to assure himself of a fatal blow. But it's never been his to use the way it is Altair's, and it's not instinctive either. Any longer than a second and his head feels like to burst. Still it gets Malik's little group to the stone gates—Abbas's post, though he isn't guarding it so well today—and then outside them. There's a man bent against the stones, catching his breath, and Malik lifts his sword, but the man bows deeply and waves them through.

A second after they've reached the outside path, Altair drops off the archway, landing in a messy crouch in front of them, off to the side where the walls provide a moment of refuge. Malik takes a step forward, thinking it was on purpose, but then spots the notched arrow sticking out to the left of his spine.

"Altair!" He reaches out his hand, which Altair bats away.

"It's nothing," he barks, face twisted with pain, and reaches over his shoulder to pull the arrow out. A thin line of blood follows, and he grunts as the arrow head pops from his skin; he throws it to the ground, rolling his shoulder with a grimace. "Archers on the roofs," he says, disgusted. "Abbas has thought of everything."

"This is a disaster. We're fighting an army. Are you alright?"

"Fine. Busy!"

"You're wobbling where you stand."

"Shut up."

"It's your Eagle's Vision, isn't it? To use it so long is nauseating."

"For you, maybe. Malik, the village is swarmed."

"I figured, and those loyal don't know who to fight."

The blue-eyed novice pipes up, "Are the villagers safe?" His face is bloodied and soot-smeared, his lip bleeding down his chin. His fellow novices are all too dumbstruck to say anything in the presence of the Master. "My parents live in Masyaf. Are they…?"

Altair throws him a spare glance. Malik says, "Abbas has no cause to hurt civilians. I'm sure they're alright."

From behind Altair someone says, "Hard to say the same for us!"

Altair whirls, sees the mask and lashes out, grabbing the interloper by the neck with both hands. Malik sees the harried eyes, one swollen shut, from under the hood, and knows them, but also sees the mask. He thinks, _Allah's sake, Rauf, not you too!_

Rauf scrabbles at Altair's hands and squeaks out, "Safety and peace! Or at least safety!" Altair eyes him a second longer, no doubt using his second sight to make sure, then lets him go. Malik lets out his breath, relieved, though not as relieved as Rauf, who rubs his throat with a hapless air. "How could I turn against you?" he babbles. "You're my friends. I swore my oath!"

"Do us a favor, Rauf," says Malik. "Take off the face mask."

"Sorry, sorry. I didn't realize…" He does so. "I'm glad I found you, Brothers. I've lost near everyone else!"

"Have you reached the village?"

"Yes, and it's as bad as it is here. Plenty of assassins, but that doesn't mean what it did yesterday, huh? This must have been planned for a year, I swear, they've covered every angle. It's like fighting our shadow."

"The villagers?"

"Hiding, mostly, or fled. The, the assassins, uh, the bad assassins—what the hell do I call them?—don't seem interested in them right now."

"You call them cowards and traitors," says Altair. He's pacing like a lion again, shoulders hunched slightly. Every turncoat assassin is a reflection on his rule, a snicker to his face, a voice calling him _half-breed._ He has never dealt well with that.

Rauf asks, strained, "Grandmaster, what are your orders? We can't hold them off forever. I don't even know how to tell _we_ from _they_ to begin with."

Malik says, " _Some_ men must have stayed loyal. Who's stationed at the village gates? There's Qadir…"

"Still defending his post last I saw him. I sent some students I trust to help."

"Good. Rabi?"

"Dead an hour."

"Damn. Really? What about Nasr?"

Rauf says dourly, "I haven't seen him since he killed Rabi."

"Fuck his mother," Altair announces.

"You know, I always said Nasr was a bit of a shithead. I don't understand it, though. Even if half the Order has pus for brains, which is embarrassing enough, it still feels like they have too many men."

"Because they do," Malik says, groaning with the realization. "Your best fighters, Altair, all those men you sent to Izmir on behalf of poor, weeping Ali! A lot of good they'll do there."

"And Abbas's extra men?"

"It's mercenaries. Abbas has brought mercenaries to the fortress to fatten his ranks."

"No respect," cries Rauf, "no honor-…wait…Abbas?" He looks from man to man, even from novice to novice, and worries the mask he holds in his hands. "This is Abbas's doing?"

"Who else?"

"Well, there are _plenty_ else who—" Wisely Rauf doesn't finish that thought. "But this is so organized, so, so insidious. It's not his style."

"His assassins call him Master," says Malik, not without gentleness, because he knows how close Rauf and Abbas once were. "I don't doubt he's had help planning, but it's him who's caused it all."

"Oh. I guess I never thought…it's just…he was so proud to call himself an assassin, I figured that meant he wouldn't…"

Altair says, "Abbas is a cur who should have been drowned at birth. There's nothing in him but shit and bad ideas."

"He's our Brother, though," Rauf says quietly. "Or at least he was."

" _Yela'an mayteen ahlak_ ," says Altair. "Damn the dead of his family."

Rauf colors. For a second, just a second, anger flashes through his eyes. "Well, then he knows how we fight and how we react. He knows the Creed same as we. And not everyone will be so quick to lift a sword to their companion from childhood. What do we do?"

The answer comes almost instantly: a band of masked men finds them behind the stone arch's shelter and attacks. Malik hooks the closest one with the tip of his sword, pulls him off his feet, shakes loose and brings his blade down on the back of the man's neck. Behind him Rauf is clanging swords with a mercenary twice his size, taunting, "Seems you don't fully understand what it is to wield a blade!" Altair has his hidden blade in one man's throat and his short sword in a second's ribs. The novices have ganged up, two to a man, and are actually doing quite well.

Then one of the enemies, a mercenary in a vest of crude-stitched animal hides, drops a small glass vial. A foul stench and plum of smoke waft up when the vial breaks against the ground. Malik fumes, forced to fight blind. Assassins never use poisons, not when battling man-to-man: there's no honor in such a thing. Out of the smoke a pair of hands grab at him, but they grab at the wrong side, grab a bit of pinned sleeve instead of arm. It's almost funny. Meanwhile Altair isn't slowed down a second, much to the horror of his opponents, because Eagle's Vision is beyond a paltry smoke screen.

But the novices are neither so talented nor so trained. The smoke and smell fade quickly, but before they do there's a sound like twigs snapping and a squeal.

When they've cleared a space Altair motions them over, past the cement storage building that sits between the side of the cliff and the path. Beyond it is a large mound of hay, and once Malik brings down an assassin shooting arrows from the top of the building, the hay makes an adequate spot to duck behind and take stock. Rauf prods inside his mouth with a dirty finger until he finds a tooth knocked almost entirely loose and, with a wince, tears it out. He spits blood and grumbles. Altair is, as usual, fine (though the back of his black robes are torn and through the rip one can see a sticky mess of white cloth and blood). Malik has an assortment of cuts and bruises that he stalwartly ignores, plus the beginnings of a fantastic headache.

The blond novice, however, is in a bad way. His arm has been so badly broken that the skin bulges around the bone, and he's swooned with pain. His good arm thrown around the blue-eyed novice's neck is the only thing keeping him upright.

"Rauf," Malik says, "you need to get them out of Masyaf. They can't fight like this forever."

Mutters Rauf, "And the rest of us can?"

"They're in more danger while they're near Altair and me than they would be on their own. Make sure they're safe. Take them beyond the farthest watchtowers."

"Of course. And then?"

"Ah…talk to the men there, if there are still men there. We need reinforcements. If we can bring in extra arms from outside…"

"Yes, I'll-…oh! No, I can't!"

"What? Rauf, what are you talking about? There's no time for arguing, we—"

Rauf grabs at his shirtfront, wide-eyed and white-faced beneath his beard. Behind him Altair hackles, and Malik has to awkwardly wave him aside. "Don't you realize?" the frantic swordsman shouts. "If it's true that Abbas has done this, then I cannot stay at the watchtower! And you cannot stay here! The village…I need to get to the mountain village."

"We haven't even secured this place and you want to worry about that one? Al Masyaf is the Brotherhood's headquarters, this is where the fight is…"

"Dima is in the other village! I must protect her."

Altair growls, "I don't think Abbas's problems are with your whore."

Rauf laughs, faint and sickly. "Abbas's problems are with me! With us! He is a jealous man, he's always been, you know that, and it distracts him. Even now I guarantee you he's too busy plotting revenge to win the fight. When he learns that I've sided against him he will want to kill me, and when he can't find me he will find _her_."

One of the freckled novices says weakly, "But that's not allowed by the Creed. That's not our way." Rauf laughs again, the same sick choke of a noise.

"That is _his_ way. That is the way of these mercenaries he's using. Altair, Malik, I must find Dima before he does. And you— _you must find your children_."

And just like that, the world falls as silent as the grave.

Malik puts a hand to his throat to convince himself that his lungs are working. At his shoulder Altair goes very still.

 _You must find your children_ and he hadn't even thought—no assassin would ever attack a target's family—this is a Templar thing, a Crusader thing, this is the sort of thing over which a king must worry—oh, God, he's been so consumed by saving the Order, by winning the battle, by covering for his missing arm, and all the while he's been so open with his weak points and Abbas, Abbas will know, Abbas will read him and know that Malik's dropped himself too deeply into his role as second…

He is on his feet. He is thinking that Tazim will be in his nursemaid's room. He is shouting at Altair over the heads of bewildered boy assassins, "When did you last see Darim and Sef?"

Altair has this whole time been cowled and removed. Now he lifts a hand to his forehead—a hand with shaking fingers—and brushes it back. His naked hair, mussed with sweat, is strange to see. He looks up at Malik from his crouched position and his eyes look black with fear and fury. "Early in the morning, before breakfast," he says. "I roused Sef so that he wouldn't spend the whole day in bed and sent him to the training yard. To work with throwing knives with the rest of his agemates. Darim went with him."

Rauf says, "That ring is near the gates and the river passage. It was empty when I passed it, of bodies living or dead. I'm sure they've all escaped." He turns anxiously to Malik. "And Tazim? Where is he?"

"He…" Malik drops his sword, presses his hand to his head. How could he not have thought of this? How is he not prepared? "With his wet nurse in the fortress—no! One of her own was feeling poorly, she asked to take Tazim to her own house for the day. I sent guards…"

"Trusted guards?"

"Yes, of course."

"Then if the nurse hasn't fled already he must be there. And it will take Abbas a long time to realize."

Malik picks up his sword again and gets to his feet. "Rauf, take the novices to safety and then do what you must to help Dima. I'm going to find my son. And Altair, you should…"

But Altair is gone.

"Left to find help," says the blue-eyed novice, quietly, still bent under the weight of his unconscious friend. "Or to help everyone else."

"Or to smash through Masyaf like a wounded cow looking for his sons." Malik shakes his head. "He'll keep himself alive. The rest of you, go!"

"Yes—but, Malik," Rauf pauses. "What should I tell the others? They're confused, they need to hear from their leader."

"Tell them to fight as long as they can. Spare their disloyal Brothers only if it's possible. And wait for word from the Grandmaster."

"Yes. Altair will rally them, he will."

"We'll meet soon. Go!" Malik steps out from the mound of hay to draw the arrows, batting a few close calls aside with his blade, the snap of the contact singing in his hands. He darts closer to the storage building, throwing knives at the archers, and waits until he's sure Rauf has gotten the novices away. Then he runs.

Down the winding pathway. Past men locked in their hated. Past villagers cowering in the weeds, under benches. Past the first signs of fire sparked from who knows where… Past the tattered flags of his Order, waving from the cliffs.

Arrows swipe at his shoulders, buzz past his ear. A man reaches for him and he throws a knife into his gut, then jumps onto and over the man when he falls. Malik runs until the path curves down but he does not curve with it, he only speeds his gait, and leaps a body and the retaining wall both, scattering hay and a lost pigeon, hurtles downwards from Masyaf's upper level in a leap of faith. Below on the second level, nestled between the walls, another pile of hay cushions his landing and springs his step. The nursemaid's house is just ahead, halfway down the narrow road that leads back to the main path, under the shade of a ragged palm. But the tree has been felled, he sees as he comes near it, splintered low at the skinny trunk.

There are no guards outside the cottage. No people of any type. The whole row of houses looks deserted. The door is unlatched and swings open at his lightest touch.

"Tazim," Malik calls, and he thinks that a father's voice should be strong enough to carry itself wherever it is needed, to reach into all the crags of the world, to plumb the depths of every space or sea. He thinks that his own father must have called for him once in just such a way, and must have sounded just as old.

The cottage is small, like most of them in Masyaf, just one room divided into several by a housewife clever with sheets. There was a meal laid out on a low table but the table has been upended and the food lies scattered on the dirt floor. There is a candle in a holder, on a ledge cut into the wall, smoking furiously. There is a bed, solid, too nice and too large for the space, and it looks ransacked, sheets tangled on the floor, straw mattress knocked half-off. There is a cradle, a fine thing, carved and solid as the bed, bought by Malik himself some months ago off a merchant. That cradle came all the way from Damascus and cost more than Altair would be pleased to know. It sits empty now.

Malik walks to it, puts his hand on the edge, presses himself against it. No blood on the cradle, but no baby either. And no guards at the door…

"No," says Malik, very softly, barely a breath, and hears his father calling him again. "I refuse it," says Malik, who cannot protect his own. "I _warned_ you!"

The litany may be self-pity, but that makes it mighty, not weak. His home gone and he saw it, saw the ending of his childhood while cowering behind a rock. His brother gone and he couldn't stop it, could only hold the body, bear the weight. His arm gone and he caused it, a sacrifice to old gods, a hole in him to match the one no one could see.

And then Tazim…and now his son…

He kicks the cradle so that it rocks, kicks it again with full strength and sends it crashing onto its side. He bellows with it, the crash loud and his screaming louder, and almost misses the voice at his back.

" _Dai_ Malik? My lord?"

He whirls ungracefully around, too heavy in his damn robes, too burdened with weapons, and useless weapons at that: they kill but cannot rescue. Will it be Abbas behind him? Will it be a masked assassin? Will it be someone he can tear to meaty shreds between his fingers?

"My God," says Raed, stepping forward. "I thought I saw you come in here." He's limping slightly, large rents down the front of his shirt, but he moves carefully, every step thought out, and he leans over ever-so to protect the sleeping child in his arms. "I reached here just in time. The woman and her family are headed for the river passage but I wasn't sure I'd make it without full use of my arms."

Malik isn't listening. He is rooted to the spot. Raed, with eyes softening, holds Tazim out to him. "Here. He's fine. Never even woke up."

"Safe," echoes Malik. He must drop his sword to take Tazim. He does so without thought. Only when the bundle is in his grasp, only when he can look down upon his son, does his heart again begin to move. Amazing, fatherhood: his child of someone else's line controls Malik's very body. "Raed," he tries, then stops. Shakes his head with the wonder of it. Outside men are dying but in here time has stilled.

"Raed, how did you even know to _come_ here? _Why_ did you?"

"It's an informer's duty to know."

"To risk his life for someone else's son? Is that his duty also?"

"I don't know," says Raed. "I asked you once but you never answered."

"Oh, Allah's sake, Raed, oh, _fuck_. That debt is _repaid_! I think I'm in your debt now, I think I shall indenture myself to you for an eternity, I think…"

Raed smiles slightly. "Did I tell you? My son's engaged to be married."

"Oh, well, that's…"

"How _do_ you fulfill that debt, Malik? It isn't just one life. A generation, an entire future has been saved."

All Malik can think to do is stand there, helpless, holding his son.

Raed says, "We shouldn't linger here. I don't know that our battle is going very well."

"I need to get back out there. But Tazim…he can't stay with me, Raed. Not even for a minute. I'm too great a target."

"Don't worry, I'll take him. I have men waiting outside who can help guard the way."

"Yes, thank you." Giving his son back, Malik is struck by both relief and pain. Tazim must be cared for, this once-abandoned child, and Malik ensures this by refusing to be the one to do it. He cannot both fight and protect, though he tried that once. He's wiser now.

Malik gives his son to another man and wishes there was a god he believed in, a god who might look with favor on them both.

_-i-_

Raed is wrong about the balance of his debt to Malik. He is not wrong about much else.

The battle is nearing a rout. Though he flings himself into it from the moment Tazim is gone, enemies seem to sprout from the corpses of their brethren. So many men have fallen for Abbas's lies. So many men refuse to honor their oaths, their Creed. To kill them, to kill men he knows by name, men he's taken meals alongside, men he's grown up with—to do this again and again would be unbearable for a weaker man. To see that assassins would rather kill their Master then be beholden to him is a potent hurt.

Malik is tiring; he feels it in the throb of his arm and the dip of his sword. It makes his thinking slow, his planning sloppy, gets him backed up against another railing with several men bearing down. He's out of throwing knives, isn't sure he'd be able to aim one properly if he had it. The only option is to jump again, from second level to first. He lands on a rooftop this time, and it's a bad landing, leaves him squinting and winded on one knee. Someone else thuds onto the roof beside him, and he looks up expecting a mercenary but finds Altair there instead.

The Grandmaster isn't wearing his black robes anymore. He's stripped down to his purest element, red sash against white, and as his fingers tug impatiently at Malik's shoulder, pulling him to his feet, his gaze settles beyond.

Malik says, breathlessly, "Did you find Sef and Darim? Altair, did you?"

Altair shakes his head. Points down, past their feet. He has not found his sons, but he has found someone else.

Peering from behind a two-story stone building, watching the fracas but staying separate from it: Abbas. And frizz-haired Ali shadowing his shoulder.

Altair smirks, and in it Malik reads: _the coward._ For that is what Abbas is. To send others to fight while he ducks behind to observe, what other name is there for that? Not that bravery would help him win a swords match against the Son of None. Altair adjusts his cowl and leaps forward.

"Wait!" Malik leaps after him, spanning the rooftops in silent stretches, and catches up when they are only a few buildings away. He grabs Altair's shoulder and pulls them both into a covered roof garden, where they can talk with some secrecy.

Altair knocks off his grip. "What are you doing?"

"As ever, trying to talk sense into _you_."

"Kill Abbas and his uprising ends. He's right there. Another second and I'll have him!"

"Yes, right there indeed. He's surrounded himself by buildings when his opponent climbs like a lizard and wields a hidden blade. And he _knows_ that."

"You're saying it's a trap?"

There isn't much room inside the wooden structure, and they don't dare talk above whispers; Malik must lean against the other man to make sure his meaning holds. "I'm saying Abbas has been taught to fight just as we do. There will be archers on every balcony and every roof."

"I don't see any."

"Oh, an assassin you can't find? Must mean there aren't any! No assassin would ever do something like, oh, I don't know, _hide_."

"Then what would you have us do?"

"We wait. We see who he has protecting him."

"There isn't time."

"Patience, Altair, must I remind you again."

"He is killing my sons!" Altair falters, talks angrily over himself. "My men, I mean, he's cutting them down. This can't go on forever."

"I'm not saying we hide here forever. I'm saying we wait until we have some semblance of a plan beyond rushing in for a 'secret' kill after the secret's already been _given up_."

Occasionally even Altair learns something, and he subsides in the wake of Malik's sarcasm, leaning back on his heels. Only for a moment, though. Then something weird takes his face and warps it, some unnatural light finds his eyes and makes them glint. "Fine," he says, in a voice that is and isn't his, "Then we'll try another way."

From a pouch tucked into his robes he pulls out the Apple of Eden. It swallows the space, is utterly too big for it: the air is pressed when it appears. Malik doesn't like how Altair tangles his fingers around the orb's golden slickness.

"You have that thing with you?" he hisses. "Don't even consider it, Altair. Put it _away_."

Altair doesn't appear to have heard. "With this it won't matter what they expect," he says. His smile is too stretched, too wide. His breathing is too rapid. "Don't you remember how much damage it did for Al Mualim? And I have had far longer to work with it. No archer will be enough to stop the Apple."

"You promised me you'd never use it in battle! Especially not on our own men."

"These aren't our men, Malik. These are traitors. Abbas's ilk! What does it matter _how_ we kill them? Is a slit throat any kinder to a dead man once he's choked?"

(But Malik remembers white hands on his shoulders, remembers the rush of power bringing with it pleasure too, remembers a boy-soldier weeping for his life in a puddle of his own piss…remembers looking up with some bemusement, as if stirring from a dwindling dream, to find his brother still dead and his own arm falling to rotten chunks against the floor.)

"You _remember_ ," he says, "with knives and swords. That is the burden of being an assassin. You don't have a chance to hide from the blood on your hands. The Apple isn't like that, it's not merely a tool to be used. It's a _djinn_ -weapon and it uses you!"

"Superstitious nonsense."

"You made me a promise," says Malik in a very low voice. "Don't make me a fool."

Altair looks at him for a long while. Malik meets the Son of None's eyes and in them sees all that they are: friends and lovers, enemies also. For the second time today his heart refuses to beat. Does he know Altair? Will he be able to recognize the man for whom he's sacrificed, in another second's time?

The Apple hangs between them, waiting. Patient.

Altair says at last: "Fine. Though I think you enjoy making my life more difficult," and lowers his hand. Malik, with a relief so broad it's painful, laughs.

"Just put it away. Surely Grandmaster Altair can kill Abbas with his own hands."

"Did I say I couldn't? He'd be dead already if you hadn't stopped me." Altair rummages around for the pouch, distracted. He holds the Apple up again, shoving it under Malik's nose, just to pout a little more, and says, "If you'd ever used this I think you'd understand what it can do—"

The roof garden's curtain is split by arrows. The first flicks into the back of Altair's hand, the second deep enough into the meat of his forearm to catch. The force of them snaps the Apple out of his grasp, flings it from the roof garden. A third arrow grazing Altair's shoulder pushes him out after it, lurching with pain. Cursing, Malik follows suit.

Altair has fallen right off the roof and into the open roadway, where he struggles to get back to his feet with his arm clutched tight to his chest. Malik jumps down after him, trying to tug him up by his shoulder. "The artifact!" Altair snaps at him, and only then does Malik think to look around for it, though it hasn't landed where it should have, it's not at their feet—

"Always check roof gardens," says Ali. "They make excellent hiding spots. Actually I think it was your Brotherhood who taught me that!"

They look up. Ali is standing on the roof of the building they were just on, smiling down at them with his feet balancing on the edge. There's an archer at his side, a masked assassin. The arrows were strong to cut through the roof garden's thick flaps, but then, only the best for the Assassin's Order!

"You're going to die," says Altair, a touch of conceit maybe when it comes from a man with an arrow in his arm. Malik aches for a throwing knife.

Someone steps forward to face them on the ground: a familiar figure taking familiar steps. And holding a familiar golden orb.

"Abbas," says Malik, unwilling to move even his eyes. At his shoulder Altair snarls incoherently through his teeth. Neither man dares try anything while facing someone with so much power in the notch of his palm. Ali looks on, beaming.

Only Abbas seems unaware of the situation. He holds the Apple of Eden in both hands, reverently, his face sculpted into incandescence. He looks ten years younger than he should. The Apple casts its unnatural _djinn_ -light against his face. Malik, trying to think back on how that felt, can remember only sleepy, heartsick warmth.

"Oh," says Abbas in wonder. "This time it isn't fighting me. I _hear_ it in my head. This time it…"

"Drop it," says Altair, his voice a growl. "It's too much for you to handle. You prove yourself an idiot, trying to repeat your mistakes."

Abbas goes shrill, tearing his eyes away from the orb with an almost audible rip. "And what of your mistakes, half-breed? And what of _yours_?" He snaps his eyes to Malik and if anything his fury grows. "You stand here and lecture me, the mongrel and his catamite? You would drag the whole Brotherhood to your sick depths! You play with Mongols, you ignore your men and then throw them into another war, when it's you who means us harm. Why should any of us follow such an infidel sinner? How shall we face Allah after allowing _Shaitan_ to lead us around?"

"Enough, Abbas," says Malik. "Look at all the damage you've caused."

"The damage _you've_ caused!"

"Why kill your Brothers over what you think we've done? Be rational, it isn't too late for that."

Abbas screams, "Don't _lecture_ me, _zamel_! No one needs to die. I'm going to save the Brotherhood. The rest of them will understand in time, they will."

"You think you can lead assassins?" Altair snorts. "You?"

"Shut up. They drove you from here once before. It can happen again!"

"Not by you. Abbas the _pious soldier_. Not even your god cares what happens to you."

Ali calls down, "How does it feel, Master Abbas? To hold such a weapon in your hand?"

"You—you were right. God, yes, you were right. It's nothing like last time. I…I know what they want from me…what it wants…righteousness…a path against those gone astray…"

"Master Abbas." Altair pulls the arrow from his arm as if it means nothing and points it at the man. "Am I expected to take this threat seriously, when the man I'm faced with is _Master Abbas_?"

Malik adds, "What is that, a person or a sort of sea sponge?"

"Don't let them mock you, Master. They don't have the right."

"This is absolutely the dumbest thing I've ever witnessed," Malik announces. Abbas looks from him to the Apple to Ali, pained. "I really don't know what you expect of me here. Should I cry at your feet because you called me a dirty name?"

He walks with slow, measured steps towards Abbas, who flinches and shakes the Apple at him. Altair's eyes follow him, trying to read his plan.

"I'm serious," Malik continues, around a sigh. "You say _zamel_ as if it meant something. What, you coward, what does it mean? Does it mean that I am a better fighter than you? Because I am. Does it mean that I, and I alone, have Altair Ibn La'Ahad in my close confidence? Because I do. Does it mean," and he stands very close to Abbas now, hand closed around his short sword:

"Does it mean than you're a witless, spineless, _jealous_ piece of shit? Because I think you are. Start all the uprisings you'd like," says Malik, "but Allah will never speak to you and Altair will never let you suck his cock."

He's sure that Abbas is going to hit him. Was planning on it, in fact. But all Abbas does is look at him, and then he laughs from deep in his throat, and Ali chuckles knowingly, and the Apple of Eden begins to glow.

Malik takes a giant step backwards. But the glow doesn't follow him as he'd feared; no ghost assassins come swarming forward to seize his arms and legs. Instead the glow gathers itself, pulls itself together from the orb's innards. Abbas watches with naked fascination, and Ali and the archer too. Even Altair is distracted. There's no point in fighting now, the orb seems to say, no reason for it. Only watch, and see what comes.

What comes is this:

The glow falls from the Apple to the ground and revives, rising into a man's limber shape. The robes are grey with red, a journeyman's outfit, sharply cut coattails and minor ornamentation. The body, settling from its golden beginnings into a white translucence, does not wear the assassins' garb quite as well as it should.

What comes is this:

Down from the creature's waist it is something of a nightmare, all twisted limbs and bulging. The knees, too wide, bent too far over the crooked feet, are entirely inhuman. The orb hums and pulses with effort; Abbas struggles to keep his grip on it.

The hands, stuck at the end of arms too long for the body, with elbows that point wrong, are gnarled and weathered, almost claws. The teeth are sharp and crowded in a mouth that's much too wide. The chest beats in uneven sputters, the skin painted over starveling's ribs.

What comes at last is this:

It is a wrong thing, a damaged thing, a _djinni_ forced from the mists. Abbas goes pale at the sight of it, while dismayed color floods Altair's face. The _djinni_ is nothing like what it should be. But its eyes are bright and wide and eager, its face round with good-natured cheer. A translucent demon with withered limbs, but it holds out a hand that Malik's held, and it watches him with eyes he knows, and it speaks to him in a voice that he still hears in his sleep.

It looks at him with such love when it talks.

"Hello, _Akhi,_ " Kadar says.


	9. Chapter 7

**_The Alamin_ **

To escape Al Masyaf with a child is no simple task, Raed is fast discovering.

The path to the river is narrow and slippery, and this late into the fracas it's deserted as well. What villagers could reach it have already fled, and Abbas's men— _Altair's_ men, even if they've forgotten—know it well themselves. It is surely being watched. The men stationed on the cliffs across the river, who can say just where their arrows will land?

Raed therefore ignores it, keeping to the village's edges, arms tight around his all-important bundle. The son of his son's savior must be kept safe. Assassins work in the dark to serve the light, and it is light he guards today.

There are other ways down to the water, including some no ordinary villager would be able to manage. The one Raed decides on requires him to go back inside the fortress gates, a difficult task when the battle is going so poorly. He uses all the skills of an informer to keep himself unseen: not invisible, for a man trying to be invisible is often the most conspicuous of all, but overlooked. Unnoticed. Unimportant.

Once he enters the main courtyard he keeps his cowl up and his sword away, strange as it feels to walk into contested territory unguarded. The men he has with him do the same. The swaddled baby he covers loosely with a scrap of cloth torn from a body. Hopefully the boy will stay asleep, for they're lost if he starts to cry. Raed's men will protect him, he knows that without doubt even in a day that has brought the repeated heartbreak of betrayal. But he also knows that Grandmaster Altair's rule is no longer a given in here. The fighters he passes are masked assassins, or mercenaries guffawing as they search out and slaughter the wounded who lie scattered across the cobblestones. Raed does not have enough men.

He lets the tension fall from his shoulders…he is nothing, he is the background, he is only another man passing his fellow traitors by. From inside the fortress come occasional shouts, as Abbas's turncoats mop up the resistance. He doesn't attack, not even to save his injured Brothers. It gnaws to leave the bastard mercenaries at their work, though there isn't a choice. Everything is permitted but still it feels like cowardice and he mutters a quick snatch of prayer under his breath: let there be vengeance, let there be a reckoning, later if not now, let the memory of the Brotherhood become the memory of this vileness and the disgrace done to his Brothers in the courtyard. Let them feel no pain.

Perhaps there is some grand scheme at work here. Perhaps Grandmaster Altair will rally the Order as he has done so many times before. There is something unnatural about the Master, it's true, and it wouldn't surprise Raed to see the shadows spit him out into the fortress fully formed, a ghost-thing able to withstand impossible odds, come to claim revenge.

Perhaps the Grandmaster really is invincible. But _perhaps_ will not guarantee the safety of _Dai_ Malik's son.

There is a winding trail across the courtyard, and then a ladder. It's no small feat to climb a ladder with a baby in his arms, but he manages. The ladder leads to a wide, round room, with a lip of stone running close beneath the high ceilings. Usually there are guards but today those guards are elsewhere. There is also another ladder, and again Raed begins to climb. The walls have been cut open here and there along the stone walkway, and wooden planks installed. The wood is stained with weather and bird droppings, half-hidden under hay scattered to allow for a better grip. The wind is impatient up here; it snaps at the mounted flags and tugs the cowl from Raed's head. The clouds race in a sky much closer than before. Tazim stirs underneath his blanket.

Raed's men climb up after him. "What now?" one of them says.

He nods his head at the wooden ledges. Below them hay is stacked in soggy clumps on a scrap of cliff sticking out from the wall. Even farther below is the river, but here it is angry, the water rushing and white-faced, pricked with rapids swirling about stones. Rather than attempt to swim it with a child in his arms, Raed looks for the beam bridge: literally a beam, not as wide as an average man's foot, set on the cliff near the hay and stretching high across the river. From that side an assassin may choose any one of a dozen paths, some which lead through the mountains, some which lead back to Masyaf. It will be easy, from that side, to disappear.

"You'll jump as you are?" says the assassin, gesturing at squirming Tazim. "It won't be easy."

"It has to be done. All of you, jump." And they do, his three Brothers, springing off the ledges into the hay. It's an infamously difficult jump, with awkward angles and limited space; many a man has broken his leg or wrist, and once someone missed the cliff entirely. The water moves so swiftly here that his body was never found. It was from this perch that Altair set off to trick Robert de Sablé, dropping an avalanche of logs on the Templar's head.

Raed waits to see the last assassin clamber clear of the hay, and then he tucks Tazim more firmly into his arms and leaps himself. It is the boy's first Leap of Faith. God willing it won't be his last.

The hard landing robs Raed's breath and Tazim is dismayed by the sudden drop, not to mention the prickling hay. He sets to wailing, continues even as Raed sits up and tries to shake the hay out of the boy's clothing, and the cliffs pounce upon the noise, tossing its echoes up into the air.

With an indrawn breath Raed looks up at the ledges. Sure enough, the echoes were a beacon. There are two—no, three, and more on the way—masked assassins clustered up there now, pointing down and shouting.

"Go," Raed shouts to his men. "Cross the ledge, hurry."

"They'll catch us on the cliffs," someone says. "It's a steep climb no matter which path you take, and with a _baby_ …"

Raed tosses solutions in his head. He cannot fail _Dai_ Malik, not in this: he would be without honor, he would be without redemption. A host of descendants are watching him now, his and Malik's, weighing him, seeing how worthy is this ancestor. The promise of the future is bawling in his arms and it _must_ be saved.

But to leave one man behind to fight back an onslaught, a mission that is almost certain death: how can he choose to sacrifice one of his own? Many times in Raed's life other, greater men have done his duty for him. No longer. No more.

"Here," he says, and pushes the squirming bundle into the arms of the nearest man. The assassin jumps, surprised, and starts to protest. Raed cuts him off. "Take whatever path will get you away from Masyaf fastest. Hide somewhere secure, and wait for word. Don't trust anything you hear lest it comes from the Grandmaster's mouth himself."

"Yes, but…"

"Remember your mission! Remember the Creed! The innocent must be protected."

"And you will meet us there?"

"I will meet you there," Raed says. "Move!"

The three of them do, running nimbly over the beam, vanishing behind a jutting crag, a dash of red in the brown landscape soon swallowed up. Tazim's crying trails after, one last farewell, the baby announcing his displeasure with as much gusto as his father might. Tazim is without doubt _Dai_ Malik's son.

Raed turns to the hay piles, where the first of his attackers is shifting back onto his feet. His sword is heavy in his hands, after all the years as an informer carrying an informer's lighter weapons. To stave off the creeping doubt he charges…

The first man greets him with a clash of steel as they parry swords; the edge scrapes against Raed's knuckles, and there is a quick sting and dotted blood. It drips from his hand to the sword, down along the handle and the hilt. He grabs for the assassin, yanks him off his feet and then thrusts him backwards. The man smacks into the cliff wall, his back first and then his head on the ricochet. While he is stunned Raed stabs the sword into his guts.

He whirls to face the rest. "Traitors," he says, and _traitors,_ his sword sings, and he tries to deal them justice, one by one. One by one and it seems they pour down the ladder, or else stand above on the ledges shooting arrows and throwing knives. He uses one man as a shield for a bit, lets the arrows gather in his stomach and side while he works his way towards the beam, trying to get out of range. Men fall at his feet, groaning and clutching, but everything is permitted. If they would forget their promises, then so shall he!

Raed is at the beam now, his feet brushing the wood, but there is a man close behind and he's afraid he might be pushed off into the far-below. He turns, nicks the man across the chest, feints left and stabs right, cutting more clothing than flesh for his trouble. His feet sense the precarious position, the wind wailing where there should be ground, and dance to keep away from the edge. The attacker swears something, swears his _name_ —Raed starts, staring at the deep-set eyes above the grey mask, the few black hairs that fall across the forehead—that voice like gravel under a rolling cart—

" _Nasr_?" he says, in disbelief.

A friend from childhood, not a best friend, but still a comrade. They sat at the same table and fought the same straw dummies. They bowed together before Al Mualim. "Nasr," he says again, using his wrist gauntlet to fend off the back edge of the man's sword. "You of all people have no excuse for this, you of all…!"

The whine of the arrow distracts him but it never reaches its target. Instead bad aim sends it nicking into Nasr's shoulder. Out of pure instinct Raed grabs him before the impact can toss him right off the mountain. The two steady each other, more grapple than hug, and blink almost in unison. Nasr looks shamefaced.

Then another arrow whines. Out of pure instinct, this time Raed ducks.

Nasr's whole face is dismantled by the arrow head, mashed into something not Nasr at all. The mask sinks into the wound and becomes one with its wearer. Raed takes a step to the side, in shock, brushing off the man's fingers which still stretch for his own. Nasr crumbles…

And the earth underneath Nasr, floury dirt on top of rock the wind has scoured for a thousand years, crumbles also.

Raed swings his arms, a buffoonish picture, but there is no muscle to the earth anymore, nothing solid, only wind and water-breeze. To fall is no longer an option. So he falls.

Assassins, of course, are trained to jump. He tries to tell his mind that this is one. The water is frothy in its haste, which might make the landing softer, but in every high Leap of Faith there is one clear moment through the fog where all technique is useless and there's nothing to do but hope for God. Unlike most assassins, Raed has always believed in Him: in a vague, blurry concept of Him, anyway. He wonders if it will help.

Like a cat the informer twists and arches, mind cool with the sheer distance he has to go. He cannot open his mouth to breathe but the wind runs down his throat. The tears wrenched from his eyes feel frozen. Still, he sees not the river coming at him but other, kinder sights…

He sees himself at his son's betrothal last month. It had been a bright moment, full of joy. Out of Raed's three sons only this one, the youngest, has decided not to join the Order, but there is no shame in that choice. He is a smart lad, good with people, good with numbers: his dream is a better, peaceful dream, one of farmland and flocks. His bride-to-be is a dutiful woman, modest, shy, but with eyes that spark when unamused. A layer of strength is good in women, Raed thinks. It's no easy life for weak ones. He pictures his own wife, of a similar nature, with something tough beneath the soft stuff, and he smiles.

His family is safe, he saw to that, and as they fled Masyaf his wife did not beg him to follow, because she knows his role. She is the best kind of assassin's wife, hardy and clever, no stranger to sorrow. And she was wearing a purple scarf that framed her pretty face…

Strange, the things a person thinks, and the time there is to think them, during such a fall. A fall that lasts seconds and a year.

The water is closer closer closer and then it is _there_.

 _Cold,_ his mind screams, and, _Too dark!_ There is sound before anything else, because it follows him even as his sight dissolves into green-black spots, so he hears the hissing laughter of the river before he feels its pull on his lungs, and the crunch of his shattered arm before he feels the pain.

Somehow he flounders his way to the surface, nauseous, about to retch. Pain crackles down his right arm, which floats limp in the water as if trying to separate itself from the rest of him. The current tears at him, shoving him along. He hangs half-aware and lets it. No shouts from above, they must assume him dead…and finally his knees scrape rock and he is tossed upon the shore.

Perhaps at least the river will not betray its own.

No one has ever counted the exact number of caves that dot the cliffs across from Masyaf. Some are slivers and some enormous, some impossible to reach and some only steps from the beach. One sits in front of Raed where he's washed up, a tiny one where the cliff-side has been worn into a shell by the elements. He drags himself along with his good arm and weak knees, soaked and shaken, the dirt underneath him turning to mud. The impact broke more than just his arm; his whole body is bruised and torn. His cowl and sash are gone. Half the river is compressed between his ears.

When most of the sky is hidden behind rock Raed collapses. Aches such as he's never experienced before shake his frame. His mouth stings where his lips are sliced, his throat burns and there is the taste of gluey, brackish water on his tongue. He touches his face with his hand, his cut and bleeding face with the bristles of his beard stiff with river grime. Alive? Alive and in a shredded whole?

He vomits, once, then with a gasped curse lies winded in the mud.

After a while breath comes back to him, though if anything the pain is worse, and he sits up. His arm is so misshapen it hurts to look at it, and only three fingers move when he tries closing his fist. What kind of an assassin will he be without his sword arm? Raed strains to hear sounds from Masyaf but if they come the river overwhelms them. Little it matters now, he is too weak to fight…even the act of closing his eyes might be beyond him…he slumps, drops his bad hand, but his lacerated palm bangs against wood instead of ground.

Raed summons the strength from somewhere to lift his head and look.

Someone has buried a wooden trunk in the shadows of this cliff. The wood isn't bloated from the moisture in the air, nor cracked from the heat, so it hasn't been here long. It's also a hastily-dug hole, shallow enough that Raed dragging himself past was enough to uncover the top corner.

Every muscle has to be wrestled with, but eventually Raed gets himself onto his knees. In the process he jostles his arm and groans. Oh, to lie down and ignore this. He is so tired. He hurts so badly. His family and _Dai_ Malik's son are out of the village, so he has kept his promise. Surely no one would begrudge him if he dozed.

Instead he shifts earth with his good hand until enough of the trunk lid is uncovered that it can be opened. He pats himself down until he finds a dagger tied tight enough to his leg that the river couldn't steal it away, and picks the lock one-handed after a minute's work.

What's inside is so obvious he almost doesn't recognize it for what it is. It explains everything, the mêlée in Masyaf and the rupture of the Order. It leeches all astonishment. In the face of it he quite forgets his broken arm.

"Oh," Raed says, "Oh, I must show this to the Master, to Lord Malik, to _every_ one. Oh," he says, "of _course_ …"

_-i-_

"Malik, oh wow," says Kadar, happily. "I've missed you a _lot_." And then the creature swings out with one of those clawed hands and scratches him across the face.

Every part of the world is delayed for Malik, smothered in tar, the sunlight sluggish like the air has become viscous and it must first wade through. He sees the blow coming and yet his limbs won't move. He can only watch dumbly as the claws twitch for him and then stumble back in a bright little explosion of pain once they land. His cheek and forehead bleed, blood welling along the bridge of his nose.

Somewhere, elsewhere, Altair bellows in inarticulate rage and storms forward. The air for him has not turned white-rancid, nor solid like old milk. He is not held captive by shock.

Abbas hovers on the brink of that somewhere-else. His face is still ashen with bewilderment, but he sees Altair lunging for his throat and knows enough to use the Apple as a shield. It beams its golden light and grips the Son of None fast, pulling his feet right off the ground. For just a moment the Kadar-thing flickers. Altair thrashes a bit, coattails flapping in the windless sky, promising all manner of death and destruction upon Abbas's skull. But he's faced off against the Apple before. He knows better than to waste his energy trying to pry free from the treacherous thing.

Malik, at his resinous reserve, one hand to his bleeding face, observes this all through clouded glass. The Apple has gone too far, just as he knew it would: it has tilted the world off its axis entirely. Feel how it slows one second, then speeds the next! Everything is wrong. He cannot catch his breath!

The _djinni_ sways with him, back and forth. It giggles in time to Altair's cursing, pulling the scratchy sound from the bottom of a half-collapsed throat. It's Kadar's laugh from childhood, from the desert, rare thing that it was then…the both of them dehydrated, desperate thirst making the younger brother rasp. "Where are we going?" he said then, in his hoarse little boy's voice. "I'm hungry. I trust you."

"It's been a ton of time since you saw me," says the Kadar-thing today, and Malik cringes though it's said nothing wrong. It sounds as Kadar should. Malik is more afraid of the longing shredding through his chest than he is of the creature giggling with his blood under its nails. It isn't real, a small part of his brain insists. How can it be real? This weapon is made of illusions, he knows that, he's been witness to such tricks before. The Apple takes imagination and turns it concrete, but no ghost can take Kadar's place. _You know he's dead,_ this part of his brain screams. _You were there! You watched it happen! You know you'll never bring him back._

But that part of Malik's mind, the sober part, the part of him that is _Dai_ of Jerusalem, is drowned out by the frantic prayers of the rest. It is a world of mystery, and who knows what the Apple has at its core? It looks like Kadar, doesn't it? It sounds like Kadar, doesn't it? It calls his name and reaches for him and doesn't he know its smile?

"Little brother?" he breathes, and starts to shiver in the face of the thing's delight.

" _Enough_ ," Altair snarls—to the _djinni_ as much as Abbas. And isn't that proof, then, that the thing is real? If Altair will talk to it? Isn't that what it means? "You'll never control the Apple of Eden. You'll be consumed again. My men will..."

Ali says from his rooftop perch, "Your men are dead, or about to be. Even now they see you here and keep their distance."

"The Apple wasn't meant for you!"

"Who was it meant for? Are you so much better than we?" Ali calls to Abbas, "You're using it, aren't you? It's obeying you. See? Master, you have always been Altair's equal."

Abbas bloats with a stunned and manic pride. "Yes," he says, almost wheezing it, "Yes, I am, I am." He jabs his finger in Altair's face: "You're not so great, half-breed. I, I've always said you were overrated." Altair looks back at him with a face like chiseled stone.

Malik blinks once and forgets them.

The Kadar- _djinni_ says, "I really missed you."

"I…I also…"

"Nuh uh, you couldn't have," it says playfully. "I waited years an' _years_. Never saw you."

He feels he should grovel before this forgiving ghost, and if he doesn't it's only because he's lost all feeling in himself. "I, you…I lost you. If there'd been any way, I—I would have walked my legs to stumps to find you, Kadar, I swear."

"Probably a good thing you didn't. You don't need more stumps."

Something is wrong. Malik tries to focus on the undercurrent of cruelty, which is so antithetic to the Kadar who was once alive. "Little brother," he says again, and reaches out his arm.

The _djinni_ steps out of his grasp. Its legs move wrong, sideways and backwards, the bones creaking and bulging, a hideous sight. "Y'know," it says, "I knew I'd see you eventually. Even if you'd forgotten."

"I never forgot you, Kadar. I could never. But you were killed-…"

"Forgot, forgot, forgot," it sings. "Left me in that hole. 'S'ok. I get it. Maybe I'd forget too, if I got to be the alive one, with warm air and food and people admirin' me. You're really important in the Order now, right? And everyone feels so _bad_ for you."

It gives a theatrical shiver. "Not warm in Solomon's Temple. You'd think it would be but I was frozen for _ages_ waiting for you. It was worth it, though, since I knew you'd come. 'Cause you always looked for me before."

"Kadar—"

"But you're so busy now, Altair _needs_ you. I got you long enough, right? Seventeen years and then…"

"Kadar, stop it!"

"Then they ran a sword through me!" It mimes choking itself, crosses its eyes and laughs. "I don't blame you, _Ahki_ , you did what you could. It was only a promise, and who doesn't make and break a dozen of those in a week? But it really hurt. You know, it still does!"

Malik doesn't hear himself groan, but maybe he does. Abbas deflates a bit, looking over at him with uneasy eyes, his hand clenched around the pulsing orb. Is he hearing whispers? Are white hands guiding him along? It holds him prisoner as much as it holds the Grandmaster.

And the Grandmaster is furious. "Don't talk to it, Malik," he barks over his shoulder. "It's a goddamn illusion. Ignore it!"

The creature says, "But you'll stay with me now, right? Don't go away again."

"I won't, I won't," Malik whispers.

'"Course you won't. You're so loyal."

Ali says to Abbas, " _Yaallah_! Kill them both quickly, while they're distracted."

Abbas says back, in a quavering voice, "I…I don't know…if that's really Kadar A-Sayf then this, this is against God's will…"

"You are His will! He wields His power through you. Strike them down, be his judgment!"

" _Ignore it, Malik_."

Malik, still wading through clay air, is helpless to respond. "He's jealous," says the creature, shrugging, although only one lumped shoulder moves. "He's jealous 'cause he wants to fuck you but he also wants to be the only one who gets to talk to me."

"Shut up," orders Altair. "You are a tool, a weapon, nothing more, you aren't real. Don't talk to him."

"Yep, still jealous, for years and years. Gosh, Altair's so grumpy, don't you think? But so amazing. We love him, don't we? He gets to use the Apple even when he's not holding it. He never wanted to tell you, 'cause then he'd have to tell you about me. Brother? Why do you look so upset?"

Altair shouts, "I said shut up!"

"We definitely love him," the _djinni_ decides. "That's why you serve under him, even though he killed me, even though he ruined you, even though he turned you into his—well, _you_ know. Heh. He could do anything to you."

"Altair didn't kill you," Malik says faintly.

"No? It was him and it was you. _I_ don't care, really, Malik, I totally understand. Novices are expendable. You've always known what to do and you knew just what to do then. Saved your own neck. And his, kinda. Just not mine. So brave!"

It smiles, stretching its lips, grinding its teeth. It is not an expression Kadar ever wore. "It's so honorable of you. He sees me _all_ _the_ _time_ , and he never tells you, and you have no idea. Poor Malik! Fuck, you're so _stupid_ , how did you ever survive that first Templar attack? Your brother should've been eaten by wolves. Maybe he was, and you too. Maybe you're dead!"

"End this," says Altair to Abbas, spitting his words, thrashing again in his cage of yellow light, "you have me and that's what you wanted, so end this charade if you have any scrap of honor left."

Abbas turns slow, staggered eyes on him. "You speak to me of honor? My God, is what it's saying true?"

Malik closes his eyes. Blood pounds in his ears in a ceaseless moan. "If I am dead, then you are a dream."

"No dream," the thing shrieks at him, "no dream but a bad one! All you've fought for and what do you have? The Son of None is a liar. Those who came before want better men. Your idiot brother died drowning in his blood. You watched!"

Ali nudges the archer at his side to fire his bow, but the man is dumbstruck and shaking. Ali wrinkles his nose in distaste, but he has only a sword on him and wait for the tableau to play out. Not that he matters. Even Altair and Abbas are far-off curses, trickling in from whatever planet they're on.

" _Well_? Are you deaf as well as dumb, my lord?" The Kadar- _djinni's_ wet eyes bulge from its face, distorting the placid features into a rage they never knew. The voice skews upwards even beyond Kadar's usual youthful tones. "I'm telling you that the Son of None has not changed and never will. He isn't yours, mortal! He is _ours_ , we _claim_ him." It leans toward him, panting, spittle flying. "It _hurts_ when he talks to me," it says, "it hurts to be here, make him stop bringing me here. _You watched_!"

 _Dai_ Malik answers the djinn. The rest of Malik is somewhere else, screaming.

"Then I will have to watch again," says the _Dai,_ in his coldest voice, and reaches for a throwing knife. Too late he remembers he's long since run out.

"I trust you, _Ahki_!" cries the creature, and attacks.

Malik has his sword but can't bring himself to raise it against that face, Kadar's distorted face, he can't bear to see it spitting blood and bile a second time. The creature fights with no artistry or decorum but with a fearsome strength. He parries its blows for a second, two seconds, and then steps badly and wavers. The _djinni_ punches him in the face with more than a grown man's strength, rakes him across the shoulder with its claws, grabs him, kicks him, and hurls him clear across the roadway.

A bunch of crates stacked next to a building break his fall. They crash down around and on top of him, splinters flying, ears overwhelmed by the clatter, eyes by the dust. An errant piece of wood takes a meaty chunk out of his forearm that stuns him for a moment with pain. His missing arm spasms; there is the panicked thought that it is pinned and he must free it. Sprawled and awkward, half-buried by the rubble, Malik tries to find his breath.

He hears Altair yell. What he won't know until he is told later is that Abbas was distracted by the violence of his own creation and let his grip on the Apple waver. The gold light wavered too, and in that instant Altair burst free, dropped to the ground in the crouch of a feral animal and then was up and springing for Abbas.

Malik pushes himself to a sitting position, dazed. The sounds of pitched battle reach him—but he cannot hear the creature—and then there is a fresh rupture of light and Altair is flung back into view.

To the Son of None's credit he is a hard man to knock down. Again and again he gets to his feet and throws himself at Abbas, trying every angle and every trick, all fangs and claws and the whites of eyes. But to fight as a lone man against a wizard's tool is no easy thing. He did it once, killed Al Mualim, but Al Mualim's arrogance was different than the arrogance of Abbas and Ali Ibn Berkant. Al Mualim liked to pose, to exaggerate, to sermonize. He was confident enough in his own skill that, from what little Altair has said, he didn't use the Apple for the entirety of the fight.

Abbas is delighted that the Apple will yield to him. For him, the voice of the Piece of Eden is the voice of God.

Altair won't realize this. He gets pummeled instead: the Altair of Solomon's Temple, foolishly defiant, throwing himself headfirst into fights he can't finish. It is an Altair Malik thought they both were done with, but the Kadar-creature proved him wrong.

The Apple grabs Altair, tosses him away, into the wall behind Malik, to the right of the broken crates. Altair hits it hard, head-first. This time when the Grandmaster stands up he stumbles, and grimaces, and has to drop to one knee. His hair is matted with freshly pumping blood.

"Altair," says Malik, but has to croak it: there is too much dirt in his lungs. Abbas stands over them, open-mouthed. Ali calls encouragement from the safety of his rooftop. The thing behind them (oh, God, Kadar! trapped and waiting in the Temple!) is salivating and smiling both.

"You've lost," says Abbas, in wonder. "I've beaten the both of you."

Altair snarls at him, incoherent. He still can't get himself steady on both feet. Malik isn't sure he himself is much better. And what is the point of rising, if he will only be knocked down? He looks away from Abbas and then he realizes…Masyaf itself has gone quiet. There are men watching from every roof, every doorway, men in a wide circle peering at this horror show with fright. None of them come forward to help their Master. Malik realizes now, none of them will.

" _Al hamdu lillah_ ," breathes Abbas, "Praise Allah, I've _won_."

"Won nothing," says Altair, but everyone can hear the slur to his words. "You are nothing."

Malik is on his feet. "Abbas," he says, in a voice more sane-sounding than it has any right to be, "this is lunacy. You are an assassin same as we. Same as all the men who've died today because of you. This is a Brotherhood, Abbas, and—"

"Why are you so stupid?" Abbas drops his smile. "Why have you always been so blind? Brotherhood? Assassins? This isn't a Brotherhood, this is a _vanity project_. A place for men with bigger egos to stamp out the smaller among them, never mind fairness, never mind justice. All those high-minded ideals Al Mualim taught us as children, but the whole time he was out to betray us. And who was his favorite pupil?"

Altair says, slurring worse than ever, "I am not Al Mualim."

"We are lost, Malik," Abbas cries, "as long as we follow the likes of him. Arrogant men, selfish men. I fight for the Creed, not for the whims of someone who would crown himself king."

"You're caught in an old fight," Malik argues. "Altair isn't our enemy."

"You said something different once."

"He was different once."

Abbas cackles. "Oh, yes, your favorite argument. He's _changed_."

"He has."

"Has he? You see, this, _this_ is what I mean. So blind, no matter what I say. You say you've forgiven him, you say he's changed, you say all is as it's meant to be—but he's spent the last ten years dragging your brother from the grave."

Malik can't help it. He flinches. "No," he says, but has to cut himself off before the word turns into keening.

"That monster is a delusion. I know what the Apple's powers are. It's lying," says Altair.

"Lying, Grandmaster? You've never seen it before? All those times you stare off into space, all the times you talk to yourself like some old man who's lost his head…when you _wrote_ in your _book_ that you wouldn't tell Malik, those are delusions as well?"

Altair is rarely caught so off-guard. He actually blanches. "How…?" he starts, then stares hard at the dirt.

Another voice drops smoothly over his. Malik drags his eyes from the Son of None to see Ali approaching. The frizz-haired man says, a lilt of laughter to his voice, '"I see him more and more. But I won't tell Malik. I won't let him want to leave me.' Lovely words, Grandmaster. Very poetic. Maybe next time you should be more careful with your things. Leaving books lying around for halfwit sons to drop in the middle of the room…anyone could find them after that."

Malik ignores him. He does not care about him. He cares about Altair, and to Altair he says: "He's wrong. You will tell me he's wrong."

Altair locks his jaw and frowns.

"Novice! You will _look_ at me and _tell_ me he's lying. Altair." Malik grits his teeth. "Please."

Abbas says softly, "I've tried to tell you so many times, because we were—we were friends, weren't we? We grew up together. We slept in the same room. I kept trying to get through to you but it was like you were under a spell, like you couldn't hear anyone or anything but _him_. He was only ever going to hurt you, I _told_ you. That's all he knows how to do! A man beyond men can't understand the ones below him. Even after Kadar died, when for a while it looked like you'd realized, even after that…I don't know why you let him…" He shakes his head. The hand he has wrapped around the Apple of Eden is suddenly very steady.

"I don't understand you, and I'm sorry this is how it's happened. You're a good man despite your, eh, bad judgment. I would offer you a place in the Assassin's Order, the one saved and purged of his filth."

"I wouldn't take it," says Malik, almost inaudible.

"I know. And I won't let him do to the rest of us what he's done to you."

Ali says merrily: "Then there's nothing else to do. Shall we hurry it up? Oh, but thank you for letting me join your Brotherhood!" Malik looks past him, over his shoulder, where the Kadar- _djinni_ stands alone, rocking on its heels, its mere presence scaring the onlookers off. Malik can't imagine anyone being scared of Kadar. He catches the creature's eye. It smiles at him.

Abbas holds the orb high over his head, and it adds a hum to the glow like a nest of disrupted hornets. Streaks of white light ripple the gold, lightening without thunder, the whole thing grows louder, brighter, wider, and Malik thinks to himself that this is overkill for just two men, and grins. How many times has he faced death, though never this death? There is no fear. Only a tired sympathy for Abbas, whose face grows paler the more powerful the Apple grows, for Malik remembers how intrinsically terrible it was to know he had such power. Usually it is a fast weapon, but it is becoming clear that it is actually _all_ weapons: it is different with different men, the better to corrupt them. It will prolong Abbas's agony, angry at being held against its will.

"What are you doing? Kill them already," Ali says over the hum-turning-roar.

"It—I don't think it _wants_ to…" Abbas holds the Apple even higher, overwhelmed; if he could detach his arm from the rest of his body and throw it at them, he probably would. The earth under their feet is beginning to jolt, pebbles jittering, there is the pressure of rushing air and an unnatural heat…and white figures watching, quickly glimpsed…

Malik doesn't look to see what Altair is doing. He keeps his eyes on Kadar and wonders idly if it will hurt.

The air is hot and screaking and—

" _Don't_!"

A grey-clad assassin drops from the nearest roof and manages to land on Abbas and Ali both. The Apple of Eden goes flying. The Kadar-creature vanishes. Malik, ignoring that the earth has stopped dancing and the light is gone and the world is deathly silent, lunges forward before he can stop himself, crying, "No!"

The novice assassin is small and is thrown off quickly by the grown men he's keeled over. Abbas gets to his knees just in time for Altair to use his head as a springboard. The Grandmaster lands neatly all the way across the road, having kicked Ali along the way. In fact he lands by the Apple, which he scoops up with a vicious grin and drops back into his side pouch. The novice trots after him and says: "Father!"

Altair whirls, a vision of bruises and torn robes. He grabs Darim by both shoulders, so hard the boy winces. "What are you doing here?"

"They said you were fighting down here, they said you were going to lose, I—"

Altair shakes him. Darim has to hold his cowl up to keep it from sliding over his eyes. "Why would you put yourself at such risk? This fight is beyond you. Why didn't you run? Where is your brother?"

"He's out of Masyaf, he's out. When everyone started fighting I made him follow some journeymen out. But I found a sword and, and, and assassins never run when they can fight," he finishes, inspired. Altair loosens his grip, his expression battling between frustration and respect.

"Sef is waiting for you with a bunch of others where it's safe," Darim says. "But I'm not a baby. I wanted to help."

"The son saves the father," Altair says, but the moment he's done speaking his face cramps and he staggers, almost falls entirely but for Darim, who's suddenly carrying almost all his father's weight.

The boy strains to hold him up and looks around in terror. The assassin audience has faded back into the shadows, to parts of Masyaf where the fight continues on. "Uncle Malik?" Darim gasps. " _Uncle_ -?"

"Right here." Malik steps forward quickly, stooping to take the burden. "Help me get his arm around my shoulder, Darim, I can't position him with just the one. Come on, idiot, don't flop around like a hooked fish. Dumb novice. Hah! I saw you grimace at that. If you're alive enough to make faces you're alive enough to stand. If I have to drag your carcass around you're at least going to manage some of your own."

Malik tugs the Master upright in a stream of cursing. Darim doesn't complain as Malik grumbles about the dead weight, because frankly it's an apt description. Altair is no help, lolling semi-conscious, as Darim and Malik wrestle him into a standing position with his arm thrown over Malik's neck.

"There," Darim says, satisfied. "You can bear him now."

Malik keeps his face blank, but he stiffens. And he knows Altair feels it from the way the other man stiffens too. "Come on, let's get out of the road." He leads Altair, Darim following after, to a patch of weeds by the massive wooden walls that ring the village's bottom level. It still isn't safe, but it's hidden from most eyes, and it will take Abbas some time to find them.

"Is he hurt badly, Uncle?"

 _He's hollow,_ Malik thinks. _He's rotten black and steaming._ "He hit his head pretty hard, and besides that he's been a receptacle for a ridiculous amount of arrows. We're both bad off by now."

"Maybe you. I'm fine," Altair mumbles.

"Father, you can't keep your head up."

"Sons don't argue with their fathers."

"But you can't."

"Quiet. Malik, where're…where're Abbas and…?"

"Run off the second you picked up the Apple. They won't go far, though. As soon as they realize you're not using it they'll come back."

"So," Altair says, and manages to keep his head up for a second, though he looks at his son and not Malik, "so I'll use it when they do."

Malik drops him.

Darim lets out a protesting yelp, but all Altair does is roll onto his back as the _Dai_ looms over him. "You will not use it. Do you hear me? It is not your choice."

"Of course it's his choice," Darim says, accusingly. " _He's_ the Grandmaster."

Malik says, still glaring down at Altair, "If he wants to keep his title and his head he will listen to me. Although both are worthless now!" Altair gets himself sitting. Malik kneels down so they can be at eye-level. "Darim," he says without looking at the boy, "Go find us some horses. There should be some still at the stables, last I heard men on our side were holding the gates secure."

"But…"

"Go on."

Darim doesn't dare argue further. Malik waits until he's sure they're alone, or as alone as anyone ever is in this damned nest of spies and sneaks. Then he speaks.

"We are leaving, Altair. Do you hear me? We are rounding up our Brothers and we are going to a safer place."

"Abandon Masyaf? Abandon the Order to that shit? _I_ am the Mster, not Abbas."

"We aren't abandoning anything, idiot. The Brotherhood isn't Masyaf, it's _you_. It goes where you go. And at the moment you need to go quickly."

"I won't," says Altair. "I won't lose to him."

" _Stupid novice, you've already lost_."

Malik grabs him by the shoulder, much as Altair had grabbed Darim. But Malik doesn't have to shake him to know his words dig deep. "Listen to yourself!" he says. "Look around! The village is a shambles and you can't even speak without drooling. Abbas has paid off every mercenary for miles, and half of your best fighters are wandering around fucking _Izmir_. We're tired and outnumbered, we can't win like this."

"I won't."

"Stubborn _fool_. Look, it's a retreat, not a surrender. We'll go somewhere safe and regroup, send messengers to the city bureaus, get our men together and take stock of what we have. Then we'll come back for Abbas, when we're not fighting from ten steps behind. If we stay here any longer we really will lose for good. If they get their hands on that orb again…"

Altair whines. There's no other word for it. "I can use it. I'll end this right here. Just once, and it will—"

Malik hits him, across the face. Altair tucks his chin to his chest and takes it. "You wretch. You _puppet_. I know how deeply it controls you but try to clear your head. How will you use it in your condition? The Apple will suck you dry in seconds, Abbas wasn't injured and yet you saw what it did to him! You think he _meant_ to, to bring K—to do what he did? God, for once in your life will you see sense! The Apple isn't a tool, _you_ are, and it is the master. If you touch it, it will destroy you, if I don't destroy you first."

For a long time, Altair is silent. He should be wearing his cowl, Malik thinks, he must want it, but it's been torn off and so there's nowhere for him to hide.

"You want me to run away," he says at last, "like a coward? To let a usurper sit in my stead?"

"Yes," says Malik, "for the sake of your children, and your wife, and we poor, dumb bastards who call you our leader. What, is it so hard? It isn't the first time we've had to humble ourselves. Either of us. As I used to think you knew."

"And what of…all this?"

"The villagers will be fine. Abbas still thinks of himself as an assassin, he won't hurt them. And we've decimated his forces enough that he won't dare leave Masyaf to follow us just yet. We'll get messages around so those who are still loyal know where to go. We'll make a plan. We'll come back."

"It shouldn't be so easy for you to leave your home."

"Masyaf isn't my home. Nothing is true, everything is permitted."

Altair demands, "And what of the grave? The grave in the back garden, does that mean nothing to you either?"

Malik straightens back to his full height, and turns to gaze in the direction of the fortress. Is it his home? Hidden as it is now by buildings and clouds of dust it's almost hard to remember it exists. "Who lives there?" he says quietly. "A king? Allah…?"

His eyes sting. He knows they're wet, but he furrows his brow and shuts them until they dry. Then he looks back down at Altair. "It's an empty grave," he says. "So it's meaningless. It's always been."

Silence. A long stretch of silence between them: it's been there since Solomon's Temple, it's never really gone away. And it's become something only a pickaxe might break through, but Malik doesn't have one and doesn't care to search. He stares off into the distance again. "Darim is coming back with the horses," he says. "It's good, then, the way out is still clear…"

He takes a step past Altair, to meet Darim, but the Son of None grabs him by his ankle, holds him in place. "Do you?" Altair asks.

"Do I what?"

"Do you still call me your leader? Do you…" He is struggling, but Malik is merciless. "Are we still…?"

Malik kneels down again, looks him face-to-face. He says softly, "Why did you never tell me?"

"It wasn't real. It was a side effect. I didn't want you to know."

"Didn't want me to know! And since when are you the one to decide what I should know?"

"I didn't ask to see him. It was not my fault-…no. It was my fault. I saw the Apple's potential and took its visions as its price."

"A price you were happy to pay."

"Not happy. But better me than you, if it would spare you the grief."

Malik laughs, bitterly. "After all you have done I am immune to grief." The laugh turns to a hiss, though, at the end: "You resented Kadar all his life. You led him to his death. You _murdered_ him, and now you won't even let him rest? My little brother, Altair. All I had. Not enough for you that you killed him, that you killed me—you had to desecrate his corpse as well?"

Once he might have taken pleasure in seeing Altair made vulnerable. Today, though, the way the Son of None ducks his head just brings on more disgust. There is still the hand wrapped around Malik's ankle; he pulls the fingers loose. Altair drops both hands into his lap, frowns, presses them into the wilting weed-bed and manages to force himself up. "I'm sorry," he says. "It was never my intent."

"I know. It never was."

"What will you do now?" Altair asks. He does a good job managing a neutral tone, but Malik knows him too well. Altair will always be so confident, even when he falters: he doesn't know what it is to give up hope.

It is something like this:

"I'm not sure," Malik says. "I'll be there to take Masyaf back, because I'm certainly not going to let Abbas keep it. I've more than paid my dues for this Brotherhood. If you don't kill him fast enough I will. After…" He rubs his shoulder, considering. Joints ache and groan all the way down the missing arm. "After I'll probably go back to Jerusalem, for a bit. Perhaps I can stomach serving the Order from there, perhaps not. If not then I'll travel even further, out of the Levant. Take my son and see if there's some part of the world less brutal than this."

"I see," says Altair, without inflection.

"I don't know. It's all been too sudden for serious plans. The one thing I know is that wherever I go, it won't be with you." Malik has never felt so calm, but even so, he looks off towards the fortress again, rather than meet the other man's eyes. There is nothing satisfying in watching Altair try to ignore his distress; Malik knows it now for sure.

"Once we retake Masyaf you stay here and run the Brotherhood. You're the best of all the assassins and you deserve it. But I…I have nothing left to offer you. I can't stay by your side, and I won't try to force it. All those times as children you said only you deserved me and maybe you were right. Maybe I'll be cursed wherever I go. But I remember, Altair, what I said to you in Jerusalem. I meant it then, I mean it now. Abbas is right, about the both of us. And I look forward to knowing you are very far away."

The village lies before him, slope-shouldered and pained. There are still men fighting in its alleyways, on its roofs, but none of those fights are as brutal as this one in the weeds. Malik grinds a flower head under his heel.

Altair says again, "I see."

Then Darim reaches them, leading along two nervous horses. "I spoke to Qadir at the gate," he says. "He says we have to hurry, he's not going to be able to keep the road open for long. But Masyaf's _ours_. Father? Are we really going to leave?"

"Get on a horse," Altair orders.

So they hurry. Altair won't let anyone help him up, because he's Altair, and Malik won't either, because he's Malik, and Darim takes three tries to climb on behind his father because he's too short still for such a large mount. They turn their backs on Al Masyaf and its fortress, and all its lamented ghosts. Somewhere Abbas is giving thanks to God for victory, with Ali at his side. Somewhere a piece of gold-that-isn't is glowing so fiercely in its wooden cage that its owner flings open the trunk lid, in bewilderment and horror.

"This isn't right!" says the old man. "You said my son would come back! But everyone's killing everyone else in Masyaf, they're dragging themselves here in shreds. It's war from the inside that you've brought us, Brothers killing Brothers, it isn't natural. Where is my son? They said-…" The old man is weeping now, without tears for he is so old they must have dried, but his voice is cracked and wounded with betrayal. "They said there was a dead man down in Masyaf pulled out of the grave, all misshapen and angry and…that wasn't my son, was it? That's not what he'll look like when you bring him back to me. You'll bring him back like he was."

The Shard of Eden doesn't respond. Today it is very busy.

This is what it is to lose hope.


	10. Before: Majd Addin

_Jerusalem_

_Before_

Malik has heard before that bad luck comes quickly, and in threes. In the tally of his life there has been no reason to doubt this.

The first bit finds him at one night's twilight, as he deigns to sit in the outer room and join his men at their evening meal. It isn't anything fancy, hummus and dates, but usually Malik is too busy with his maps or his plans to take even this small rest. His men know this, which is why they often invite him but rarely expect him—and on this night it is a pleasure to sit with his back against scarlet pillows and reach for a branch of grapes, and let their conversation damper the many stresses swirling in his thoughts.

He is reclining thusly when the news arrives, brought to him by an assassin who falls blood-smeared and panting from the roof. The assassin says that one of their Brothers has been captured, alive, in an unexpected raid in the poor quarter; they were on their usual rounds when out of nowhere soldiers thronged and shouted. The messenger escaped by means of a group of scholars just then passing through, but in truth the soldiers seemed less interested in finding him than they did in hustling their prisoner off.

Ill news: a live capture means they will torture the man for information and then kill him when they're done. City guards wouldn't bother, and their employers wouldn't dare…though the rulers of Jerusalem might pretend otherwise, they know well the powers of the men in white. This attack must be a Templar one, after some months of blessed quiet.

Malik returns to his office, the pillows scattered, the food forgotten. No rest for him tonight. He sends spies to discover which Templar they are dealing with, and by morning break he has his answer and his second touch of bad fortune both. "They were Majd Addin's men," the spy reports. Malik curses and throws an inkpot.

The city leaders wouldn't dare? Hah! Wishful thinking, it appears!

Malik knows of Majd Addin; he has hidden himself in crowds to listen to the man in turban and quilted robes rave. Addin has been Jerusalem's regent for some time now, appointed in (some say stole) that role at the latest outbreak of war. He had been Saladin's scribe once, though no one knew him then, but with the Saracen leader gone for the battlefields Majd Addin became the interim leader and promptly lost his mind. He is religious as Abbas is religious, lacking humor, lacking sympathy. But at least Abbas suffers his own burdens. Jerusalem's regent insists his theology becomes the world's. As the war winds on, as Saladin goes farther and farther away, Majd Addin forgets himself amid dictatorial flourish.

Malik has long suspected the man to be a Templar; he rants so often of fear and order. But to assassinate the acting leader of Jerusalem is no easy task, even for the Brotherhood. Addin is a bigot, but a clever one, and he knows how to work an audience. He has his guards round up crowds, then in front of them stages mass executions, half-vengeance and half-spectacle, for crimes major or minor or undeclared. He becomes a vengeful god to people who know that sort of god best, and whips the city into a dumb, screaming lather.

Saladin, it may be said, had been a tolerant leader, for his part. Majd Addin will hang a man for going without a beard, will stone a woman for going without a scarf, will exile other religions at whim and then, at some other whim, demand they all come back. He has ordered the spires of churches knocked down. He has brought dissidents up for mock trials which inevitably end in hanging, and the bodies thrown to the dogs. Malik has watched all this carefully, has seen how the people fear him and are manipulated by him. Now he will have an assassin for one of his grotesque performances, and the people will think that the Order is weak.

"He has announced there will be another execution held at the end of next month," says the spy. "What will we do?"

Malik sends the man off so he doesn't have to admit he isn't sure. Addin is the city's regent. He is well-guarded, and in some circles well-liked. Monsters don't fall out of the sky, but are formed from the sludge of the lands they rule. How many powerful fundamentalists might look at Addin's assassination as an affront?

But the man must die, he is too bold now. Malik writes a letter to Al Mualim.

And gets his third bit of bad luck back on messenger pigeon's dirty wings.

Al Mualim agrees that Majd Addin's hubris cannot go unpunished, regent or no. But where Malik had expected one of his better men charged with the assassination—had even expected to be charged with it himself—the Master says instead that he will send Altair. Altair, still flicking from city to city on his search for salvation. Altair, who rumor suggests has reached journeyman rank again, a glimmer of the past brought into the present. Haughty, long-limbed Altair in his greys, a churlish teenager throwing himself off ledges. It will be strange to see him dressed that way again, with extra scars and extra damage. He is often thoughtful these days, rumor says, and it's disconcerting.

Not that Malik ever listens to rumor where Altair is concerned. Still, sometimes he thinks he is the only one who _remembers_ that past…a backwards prophet, doomed to old memories instead of new ones. Which is the worse fate? Who can say?

Malik reads Al Mualim's letter three times, touching his tongue to the back of his teeth. Then he takes quill and parchment, gets a fire going in the grate, and settles in his chambers to respond.

 _This is wrong,_ he writes. _You act like a boy training his dog._

And there is more, after that: Malik writes that as leader of the Jerusalem bureau he disapproves of the plan to send Altair after Addin. It is his official opinion, as one who has risen to the challenges of his rank and place, that the death of a city leader and the rescue of an assassin are too important to be left to a journeyman, even this journeyman. Especially this journeyman. Altair, Malik writes, has little experience saving his Brothers.

It's a farce, what Al Mualim suggests. It needlessly complicates matters. Don't Malik's men know this city best of all? Don't they know the kidnapped man best, and his kidnapper? What on earth does Altair know? Certainly not the assassin's name.

 _It's disrespectful,_ Malik writes, _to leave a man's fate in the hands of a fool on a redemption quest. Do you think otherwise, Master? If Altair fails, and one should always presume that Altair will fail, but if Altair_ fails _then my man will die. And you will shake your head and fold his arms and use his name as an example. A_ lesson _. We are worth more than that, Grandmaster. We are not all interested in bending over so that Altair may climb up over our backs._

_The captured man's name is Samir. He is twenty-three, and jovial, and he's always the first one at any meal. Altair doesn't know that. But I forget myself: neither do you._

At that Malik lowers his quill, reads over what he has done. He uses a paperweight to keep the paper steady, and his handwriting is clean but for an ink blot or two. It is a good letter. He has written a version of it in his mind every day since Solomon's Temple.

Then, because he's no fool, Malik throws it into the fireplace. He watches it burns to cinder, then pulls his black robes across his shoulders—Altair may be a journeyman again but Malik is _Dai_ and he will be respected—and goes to prepare for the Son of None's return.

_-i-_

The assassins are restless. One of their own has been captured, and they look to Malik to help him, but Malik must wait for Altair to arrive. All the way from Al Masyaf he's supposedly coming, on a road which winds through contested territory several times. Altair manages to bumble into a Templar den every time he breathes. It will be an eternity, and meanwhile a part of Malik is still hoping he'll drop dead in some forgotten valley between Masyaf and here.

To want Altair alive and able to fight, and at the same time want him killed…

A week goes by, and there is neither sign nor word of Altair. All the while the assassins in the bureau mumble.

"You think I should ignore Al Mualim's orders," says Malik to Raed one morning. It is early and hellishly bright, and the air that wafts through the roof grate and into the main room is gritty. Raed is replacing the ink in Malik's pots. Left long enough it clots in the pot, but the act of pouring fresh ink from one heavy jar to another, without spilling, is one of the many tiny things Malik finds it hard to do on his own.

He doesn't remember when Raed started changing the ink, first mixing the lampblack in with the bundles of gum arabic he brings from the market, then adding the boiling water, bottling the final product for later. Perhaps from the moment they arrived, when Malik was still too numbed by rage and heartsick to notice such trifles as ink and sword polish and food. They never talk about it.

"You think I should kill Majd Addin myself."

"I would never presume to tell you to ignore our Master's orders," says Raed smoothly. Smooth as the ink he pours from jar to jar.

"Ok. So you won't tell me you think it. But you _do_ think it. You and all the others."

"The men think a lot about a lot of things, really."

"Come on, Raed. I won't call you a traitor for thinking the same as me."

Raed pauses. "Samir is our Brother," he says, "and our friend. He should be rescued as quickly as possible…the longer Addin has him the more he will suffer. You know this. Master Al Mualim must know this. Altair…"

"Altair will do his job," Malik says, though he doesn't know why he's so moved to defend the man. "If he arrives."

"If he arrives," Raed agrees. "The _if_ worries me. Samir's life rests on an _if_."

"If he isn't here before Addin's next execution, I'll rescue Samir myself. I swear to you."

"You need swear nothing to me, _Dai,_ " says Raed, and pops the stopper back into the ink pot. "I trust you in this as in everything else. As do the rest of your men. It's about Altair we wonder."

Malik plays with the feathers of his quill. "Well, if he doesn't arrive in time, then he has failed his task. By failing he kills his Brother, however indirectly. And the punishment for that is death. Should be death." He drops the quill. " _Will_ be death, and I'll be glad to take on the assignment."

"Mm. But…I do think he will come," Raed says, thoughtful as he studies Malik's frown. "I think he will come here quicker than he would anywhere else."

"Why would you think that?"

"You're almost out of oil for the lamps. I'll send someone to buy more today."

"Raed! Answer me, why would he come here any faster than anywhere else? Altair's not that stupid. He knows the greeting that awaits him. Last time I made him scrub my floors." He adds, glowering, "I'm sure the _Rafiks_ of other cities fawn over his every word."

"No doubt. But still I think he will hurry here."

"That doesn't make any _sense_ , Raed."

"He takes comfort in your castigation. That is what I think. That he would welcome any sentence you gave him as deserved."

"Don't be an idiot," Malik huffs. "Nothing you say sounds like Altair at all."

"Oh, I don't think he's realized it." Raed is in the doorway when he turns back, looking a little too amused for his own good: "Of course, neither have you."

Malik throws the refilled ink pot at him, but he's gone before it reaches. "Idiot!" Malik bellows. "Now there is ink all over my floor! And I am running out of ink pots!"

Raed doesn't answer, so he settles down to fume at a map. His quill is too dry to use, though. He can only glare at the lines he's already drawn, the lines of a map from Jerusalem to Masyaf, as if he might see Altair trudging along it, a black mark all his own.

_-i-_

The Son of None arrives the next day, during an afternoon as boiling as yesterday's morning. "Safety and peace, Malik," he says, with less than half of his usual smarm.

"Would that the city was possessed of either," Malik grumbles. It still sounds so wrong for _this_ man to speak to him. "Why do you trouble me today?" he asks, though of course he knows.

"Al Mualim has marked Majd Addin for death. What can you tell me about him?"

Malik plots his stylus along the paper on his desk. This isn't his map but one of the older ones, and he is checking the calculations and finding many of them off. Shoddy work is frustrating; it is enough for others but see how it condemns him.

"Saladin's absence has left the city without a proper leader, and Majd Addin has appointed himself to play the part," he tells Altair with a cursory glance up. Yes, grey-clad Altair is a strange sight to see again. But look at the shadow of stubble on his chin. Look at how pale he stays despite the sun. Quickly Malik looks back at the map.

"Fear and intimidation get him what he wants. He has no true claim to the position."

"That ends today."

Malik looks up again. It is a little thing, a throwaway bit of pride compared with all of Altair's greater faults, but Samir's life depends on this strutting cock of a man. "You speak too readily," he snaps. "This is not some slaver we're discussing. He rules Jerusalem and is well-protected because of it. I suggest you plan your attack carefully." He leaves off the _for once_ , because it isn't needed: it's spoken in every stab of his stylus to paper. "Get to better know your prey."

But here is a shock: Altair not only doesn't rise to the unspoken-spoken insult, he _accepts_ it. "With your help I will," he says. "Where would you have me begin my search?"

"What's this? You're actually asking for my assistance instead of demanding it? I'm impressed."

"Be out with it," growls Altair, and Malik relaxes. There, that is the man he can comfortably despise. That nicer one just now, well, what is he to do with that? The world that's embittered the _Dai_ should not also soften the Son of None.

(Malik has never considered what might happen should Altair learn humility. He cannot believe it possible, not in any sense.)

He says, "Here's where I would look. First, to the southwest, near the grand mosque. After that, head south of here. There are two locations that might interest you—the southernmost church is one. The other is in the streets, near a synagogue."

"Thank you for your help, _Dai."_

Again, Malik's head snaps up. Altair has never called him _Dai._ They stand here in Jerusalem, the both of them wrecks of what they were, and Altair thanks him for his help and calls him by his title. He draws the end of the word out a little longer than Raed. Malik shifts, uncomfortable. The itch along the back of his neck he can blame on the heat, on his bulky robes, but the sudden tightness in his groin is harder to explain.

Last time Altair was here Malik was too furious even to think it. Has he calmed down? Has he forgotten? What is _wrong_ with him?

Thank all the gods that ever were, his voice doesn't give him away. "Don't foul this, Altair," he warns, and sends the novice off.

He keeps himself too busy to think of it, for a while, but every day has an ending like treacle: his future spread out before him like a map but this one without ink he can easily correct. He will be _Dai_ until he is dead, and who knows what Altair will be, and…

 _I think he will come here quicker_ , Raed said, but Malik cringes, sinks to the floor. Hides behind the counter like a scolded child. _I think he will come here quicker,_ but all Malik can hear is Kadar rattling his words in his throat, _He'll come back to help us, he'll come back for you._

Malik holds his hand over his ear. "Go away," he says, and no one listens, and no one does.

_-i-_

It is only after he's regained his self-control that he realizes Altair never mentioned knowing anything about Samir.

_-i-_

Malik's bureau has, almost despite his best efforts, become cluttered over the long time of his reign with bits of his life. It's shaped to him, much as he would prefer to get through the rest of his days without leaving any mark. In a corner is a chess board where he will sometimes play a fast, unforgiving game with Raed. Strewn about are letters and trinkets sent from _Sayyid_ Hamid, his old friend and neighbor in Damascus. Hamid has over the years become one of the Order's greatest suppliers, despite his settling into grumpy old age.

(One day not so far off, Malik supposes that Hamid will die. And then? The King of Swords considers again his future, the endless flat future which he has fallen into, awaiting no wife nor children, no final rank, no great task. One day Hamid will die, and then who will ever have known that once there was a nameless village, hidden in the hills?)

The bureau is for all assassins, but the bureau is Malik's. The men who stay here are Malik's. The city of Jerusalem is Malik's.

Altair is not Malik's. It would be dangerous to think otherwise.

But there are times when even he risks forgetting.

For near a week he sees little of Altair, and hears of his hunt for information on Majd second- or third-hand. It should be better this way, but it's no less distracting having him elsewhere. Malik finds himself pacing his bureau, taking down books of maps only to put them away. No good. No good having Altair here. No good knowing that an assassin will live only at Altair's whim. If it were any other assassin tasked to save him Malik would trust in his skills and keep quiet counsel but this—he has _done_ this. In Solomon's Temple he yelled at Kadar for thinking Altair would come back, but even as he yelled he scanned the entrance and _waited_ …

Altair has always maintained that the rockslide kept him away. That he would have come back if he could. Malik has heard him say as much and can only imagine if their places had been switched. If he had been thrown from the hall and blocked from Altair and his brother. He would have thrown himself at the rock until he shattered every bone, he would have found another way in if it took the rest of his life. Malik would have saved them.

Malik did not save him. And after a day's pacing finally he gives up and climbs to the roof and runs. The buildings under his feet turn from solid stone to rusted tin. The tent-shanties of other roof-dwellers sometimes block his path. Once he even sees one of his assassins jumping the gap between roofs in the distance, out on a mission. Malik runs until a certain church appears and then he hauls himself one-handedly up its iron spire and balances on the tips of its cross and he looks.

From here he can see Solomon's Temple, way off at the city's edge. It hulks in sullen ruin, half a mountain turned to crumbling caves. Raed asked once why he never went back for Kadar's corpse, because Raed expects so much of him. The Temple knows him better than that.

Malik saved no one. Malik is still looking for a way back in.

What will he do with himself if Altair standing before him sounding contrite is all it takes to forgive? What will he do if it turns out his anger at the Son of None is just leftover anger at himself? If it turns out he really is too weak to bear his lot? If he is that despicable? It shouldn't be possible to forgive when Kadar's grave is within these same ancient walls.

Malik stares at the Temple until it grows too dark to see. There aren't answers here (there have never been answers here, no matter how often he comes), but he makes a decision nevertheless. If the Jerusalem bureau is his bureau, and its assassins his men, then Samir's life is his burden. Altair cannot be trusted, for reasons that Malik sees now have little to do with what he did or didn't do before. As skilled as he is, as determined, the Son of None isn't meant for certain things. The role of hero and the role of victor and the role of kings: these are Altair's. But these roles are not everything.

Altair is the hero. Malik is the one who goes back.

Malik returns to the bureau grimly resolved. If Samir dies because of Altair it will still be Malik's fault. So Samir mustn't die.

There is an informant waiting for him in the antechamber, his notes rolled up and shoved under his arm. Malik greets him, they discuss things, and then at the end of the conversation Malik says: "Put this aside for now, though. I have another task for you."

"Yes, _Dai_?"

"I need to you bring me everything you can find on those close to Majd Addin. Find me someone near him who can be bribed. We must get close to his gallows come the execution, without being seen."

"Yes. Did Altair request this help?"

"This is separate from Altair. We need to be in place to rescue Samir even if Altair can't."

"But-…"

"What is it?"

"Your pardon, _Dai._ But killing Majd Addin is Altair's task. Master Al Mualim will be angry if we do it for him."

"I don't care about Addin. If Altair kills him, if he kills Altair: either way we will rescue our man. That's our only concern. Let other men worry about less important things."

"The Grandmaster might not agree with you. I am just concerned…"

Malik draws himself up to full height. "I did not ask you to be concerned," he blazes, "nor whether Al Mualim agrees. We are assassins, and we follow our Creed. We fail it if we fail Samir, do you hear me?"

"Yes, _Dai_ , yes, please. Forgive me."

"Then go, do as I've said. If I fail then let the old man hang me."

"You won't fail. We trust you," the assassin says with terrible faith, and holds out his report. " _Inshallah_ thanks to you our Brother will be saved."

Malik reaches to take the scroll from his hand, but nudges a dagger into his palm and counts a dozen moments where he could have slit the man's throat in an instant. All the while the man stands placid and unaware. "It's dangerous to trust others sometimes. You should know that."

"But you are our _Dai_. You would never fail your men."

"Get out of here," Malik says.

_-i-_

Altair returns the next day. Among other things he brings with him a map of the execution area, filched from one of Addin's lackeys. A crude thing by this mapmaker's view, but it will suffice. Malik takes it from him. "What other news, novice?" he asks.

The older man scowls. "I am _not_ a novice."

"A man's skill is defined by his actions, not the markings on his robes."

"We can trade barbs or do Al Mualim's work. It's your decision."

Malik's eyes flash. "Then be out with it." He pulls out a book to slide the map inside, and is childishly pleased when the dust off the counter makes Altair cough.

"There's nothing to say that you don't already know. Jerusalem's regent Majd Addin is holding a public execution not too far from here. It's sure to be well-guarded, but it's nothing I can't handle. I know what to do."

For a long moment Malik only looks at him with distaste. "And that is why you remain a novice in my eyes," he observes. "You cannot _know_ anything, only suspect. You must expect to be wrong, to have overlooked something. _Anticipate_ , Altair. How many times must I remind you?"

"As you wish," says Altair, surly. "Are we done?"

"Not quite. There is one more thing." Malik pulls Al Mualim's letter from under his counter, lets it flutter to the tabletop. "I see our Master neglected to tell you the true point to your mission."

"He told me to kill this Templar. More than that it isn't my business to know."

"Keep practicing that sentence and one day you might sound as if you believe it. Well, your ill-informed bumbling will cost us more than your honor. Listen carefully, Altair. One of the men to be executed is a Brother—one of us. I wish-…Al Mualim wishes for him to be saved. Do not worry about the actual rescue, my men will take care of that. But you must ensure Majd Addin does not take his life."

"I won't give him the chance."

"So I hope." Malik won't meet his eye as he offers him a feather for the mission. He expects Altair to take it and leave. But instead he stands there, twirling the feather between his left hand's four fingers, and Malik might almost call him tentative. "Do you need something?" he asks, not without impatience. The longer he must look at Altair the more his stomach churns. "Is that why you continue to stand before me?"

Altair speaks slowly, staring the feather as though it could look back. "Earlier today," he says, "while I was eavesdropping. There were two men talking about Addin's execution. One of them was the father of one of the captives. He sounded distraught."

"This surprises you?"

"No. But he means to rescue his son. He plans to charge into the execution with a sword."

"He is desperate. I can't blame him. He may make things more complicated for you, though, so keep an eye out—"

"He's a fool," Altair bursts out. "How can one old man with a dull sword think to challenge Jerusalem's regent and all his soldiers? He'll only get himself killed along with his son."

Malik raises an eyebrow. "The blind hopes of the people have never bothered you before. This is Jerusalem, Altair. This is what the world looks like when you aren't around to play hero."

Altair can only mutter: "I heard him beg. It isn't right."

"Many things aren't right. We survive them."

"Maybe that's enough for you. But _I_ won't settle for…"

"I've nothing more to say to you," Malik interrupts. "Attend to your task." But he stands frowning at the shoddy map, lost in thought, long after the Son of None leaves.

_-i-_

At some point he remembers to eat. He clears a space for himself in the bureau, using his chess board as a table, and sets out a simple spread of bread and olives and cheese. A heavy mug of well-water. Basic fare but satisfying, and in healthy amounts, after all those months when he could hardly bring food to his lips without becoming nauseous. A year and another year and Malik comes closer and closer to his old self, until he might reach out and touch that other Malik, a reflection in a dirty puddle. Closer and closer but never quite.

Malik scoops a bit of the soft cheese onto a crust of bread and lifts it to his mouth. But before he can take a bite a rustling at the main room's entryway alerts him to someone else's presence. Annoyed, he looks up.

"What news, Altair? Do you bring word of Majd Addin's death?"

"No, he still lives." It isn't a surprise, no city regent would be that easy to kill, but it does mean Altair belongs elsewhere. Of course, Malik usually feels that way.

"I'll give you the benefit of assuming you have good reason for returning. Be quick about it, though."

Altair smiles from under his hood. In the dim light of the bureau he fades into his strange, grey robes. "Will you?" he asks. "Give me that benefit?"

Malik drops the bread. "No. Does this look like the site of an execution? Get to work!" After a moment he adds, "And stop bothering me during my meal."

Altair doesn't move. He just stands in the doorway, the very picture of brooding. Malik, who has done his fair share of brooding, wants to turn his head and ignore the man's histrionics, but it's hard. Harder than last time. _I have not stopped being angry_ , Malik reminds himself. _Whatever demons chase him today should catch him and eat him, if there is any just god in the world_.

Altair says, "You are so calm about it."

"About what? About you?"

"Not about me."

"Don't mistake disinterest for acceptance, idiot. I've only grown tired of throwing things at your head. It seems you never learn no matter what cracks your skull!"

"I'm talking about the execution. Majd Addin has one of your men and yet you sit here calmly with your meal."

It is only the reassuring feel of the throwing knife in his hand that keeps him from throwing it. "And what good would it do me to panic?" he demands. "Shall I throw myself blindly into the situation and condemn us both to death? I would hate to steal your tactics when they've worked so well for you before."

"That isn't what I meant."

"I don't care what you meant. I told you, Altair, the rescue isn't your concern. And how I run my bureau and how I serve my men—a man twice your worth has no right to comment on that. Not even if he were Al Mualim himself. So _you_ of all people, _ya_ _kanith_ , you swallow your forked tongue. Go back to throwing yourself off roofs in Damascus, pester the Acre _Rafik_ , be anywhere but _here_ where you always make things _worse_ -…"

"Malik." Altair steps further into the room, hands raised in a conciliatory gesture. "Peace, _Dai._ I didn't mean it as a scolding."

If hearing Altair say his title was unsettling the first time, it's worse now, and curdles the sight of food. Malik twists his lips and says, "Don't call me that," but too soft to hear, and pushes his plate away.

"I meant it with admiration," Altair says. "You stay calm and you do what you must."

Malik scoffs, "As if you'd admire anything but your reflection."

"I admire those who can accomplish—"

"Who can accomplish what you can't. Samir would die if I trusted his fate to you. Assassin, you don't know what it is to save a life."

Altair drops his hands. "You turn everything around," he mutters. "Everything is worse off with you."

"What were you expecting? Did you think you could come in here with some weak compliment and expect to fix everything? Expect me to fawn over you like the silly novices in Masyaf?" He taps his folded sleeve. "Next will you regrow this? As long as you are working miracles."

Altair says, "I don't want to fight with you. But maybe that doesn't matter."

"You're right, it doesn't. Maybe you want those poor people to be executed while you whine at me like a kicked dog. Because that's what will happen if you don't leave _now_."

But Altair lifts his chin and smirks at him, and whatever softness was in his voice drowns in his derision. "Bray all you'd like. It never changes. Even if I come here with respect."

"Respect? Is that what you think this is?"

"I think you should be honest. You'd gladly let those people die, including your assassin, if their deaths were on my head. My failure's worth more to you than their lives."

"Shut up."

"Am I wrong?" He steps quickly to the chess table and presses his hands flat against the stone. Malik stares up at him, at those eyes that haven't changed, damn it, in all the years gone past. "But you won't admit it. No, not Malik the holy man. You never could admit that there was more to you than the Creed and the rules, that you are every bit as selfish as I am. We are the same greedy animal but only _I_ will say so."

"I won't listen to this shit in your mouth. _Rouh ya ayr_! Get lost, you prick…"

"You just want to use your men as a weapon against me, you want to hurt me any way you can, no matter what it costs you—again and again you will lose them, so that you can have another wound to nurse. You thrive on our bad blood."

Malik shouts, "I don't give a damn about you!" Heat is fast-rising to his face. Altair sounds as he did the night he became a Master Assassin, the night Malik refused the rank. If asked maybe Altair would pin the source of all this _bad blood_ on that night, on that choice. But then what followed as a result, the bickering and Solomon's Temple…if that is what Altair thinks, then is what happened Malik's fault?

"Your men are your pawns," Altair says. "You don't care about them, you care about what they make you."

"I'll cut your throat if you say another word."

Altair, wild, wide-eyed, shouts, "Just as with _him_. You cared for being the older brother more than you ever cared for…!"

But he stops himself before he can say the name, and it saves him. Throughout it Malik stays in his seat; there'd be no point in standing, Altair is the taller of them. After the battle comes the carrion silence, after the plague comes the maggot hush. They are frozen in their anger and for a moment neither speaks.

In what's as rare as snow in Jerusalem, it's the Son of None who first backs down.

"I didn't intend to fight with you," he says, lifting his hands from the table. "I only came to say I admire your calm. After what I've seen of Majd Addin's crimes, it is…something I lack."

"Lack?" Malik echoes, hoarsely. "I've seen you fight. If you're not beaming at the blood spray you're stoic as stone. I've seen you wring necks like a farmer with an eggless hen."

"This time it is different. That old man willing to die for nothing…"

"It's nice to see you can care about _some_ one besides yourself," Malik says. "I didn't think you could."

"I cared about you," Altair says, voice dropping low as though he's offered some great secret. Malik shakes his head. "It's the truth," Altair says, sounding angry when the _Dai_ rolls his eyes.

"The truth, Altair? The truth is that you left. You left us there, and you can deny it all you wish. The truth is that he said you would come back. He said that you _cared_."

"I told you. I tried."

"Yes. Well, this time you must try to save Addin's victims. And your old man. I've been wondering if your success with Talal wasn't some happy accident, but you _tried_ …This time, novice—try _harder_."

Malik stands up, appetite fully lost, but the food is still on his plate and in Jerusalem's heat it won't keep. He looks at Altair, who's stepped back to let him pass. "Hungry?" he asks. "I don't want it now."

Altair looks at the plate. "Is it poisoned?"

He says it with grim eyes and absolutely no mirth. Ridiculous. Malik picks up the dropped piece of bread, puts it to his mouth and bites. In the musty quiet of the bureau the crack of his teeth against the crust is unexpectedly, impossibly vast.

Altair watches him chew. Watches him swallow. The hunger in his eyes has nothing to do with bread.

Malik chews slowly, watching him back. The other Malik, the old Malik of the faded reflection, would sit with him and share the meal. Discuss tactics over dinner. Chat. But this Malik moves away from the table. "Eat," he says. "It won't do Majd Addin any harm if you starve. Don't forget why you have come here, Brother. Find your target and end his life."

"When I'm ready I will." A minute hesitation. "Brother."

It's a good word, even sarcastic. The Son of None sits awkwardly at the chess table, all sharp angles in his low-ranked robes, a step off from his reflection just like Malik. That's a surprise to discover. He pulls the plate back towards him, takes the loaf of bread and begins pulling it into pieces, using his nails like knives. Malik stands in the doorway of his own place and waits for Altair to eat.

_-i-_

When he wakens the next morning and goes to check on the assassins sleeping in the anteroom, he expects to see Altair there, hunched separate in his corner as always. He even has an insult picked out and ready ("Still here? Are you interested in a staring contest, then?") but when there's no one to use it on he feels oddly off-balance.

Raed, just dropping in from the roof grate, sees him and calls, "The execution is this evening, _Dai._ Altair's gone and we've got men stationed. We'll be ready to free Samir as long as Altair can distract the guards long enough."

"Shouldn't be hard for him," Malik murmurs, hardly listening. The execution: yes, of course. The very thing on which he was going to harangue Altair. Good, so the novice is doing his job for once. Good, so he's out of Malik's bureau and soon he'll be out of Malik's city, either on a horse or in a box. Either is fine.

Raed steps over a sleeping figure and stands at Malik's side. "You look exhausted. Did you get any sleep?"

"I'm not convinced our preparations are ready," Malik answers. "Show me again where you have men stationed. Walk me through it step by step."

"Of course. Here, the positions are marked on your map…"

They go together into the main room and Malik unwraps the map Altair brought back. X's have been added over certain roofs and in certain alleys, in thick, black ink. The spot for the gallows has been circled as well.

"Majd Addin will rant for a while," Raed says. "Not to stall, just to hear himself talk. We're certain he doesn't expect the assassins. Altair was careful in his spying."

Malik taps a finger to the map. "How do you know that?"

"Oh, well," Raed nods. "He's a very good assassin, isn't he?" At Malik's lifted eyebrow, he allows himself to smile. "But I am the better spy, I think."

"Stalking Altair…there must have been better ways to spend your time."

"To be blunt, _Dai,_ if he fucked up I wanted us to know quickly. Addin knows Samir's an assassin. He might have killed him sooner if Altair gave our plans away."

"Fine. So he didn't fuck up. And now?"

"Now we have men already in their positions, ready to strike. Altair will take this main route here and mingle with the crowd. There are assassins on all sides, but I think our best escape route will be this path. There are guards blocking it but they'll be drawn off by Altair, so we won't engage them. We'll wait for them to pass."

"Mm." Malik is having trouble focusing on the map. It's a lousy map, really, and he doesn't need it to see the twisted warren of Jerusalem's backstreets…

"Addin's soldiers at every corner," he says. "Plus the city guard. And our men won't fight any of them."

"Not unless they're spotted. But they will be careful."

"So all those guards will be drawn to Altair. Like a sinkhole in the desert, one grain of sand after the next."

Raed shifts. "Yes, _Dai_ ," he says slowly. "Unless you'd rather something else…?" Malik doesn't say anything. Raed keeps his eyes on the map. "Samir will be in bad shape," he says softly. "We should get him out as quickly as we can."

"Right." Malik shakes his head, to clear it, and with his shoulders squared pushes his nagging thoughts aside. "It's Altair's assignment to kill the Templar, and if the Templar has friends with him, so be it. Samir is our only concern."

"Right," Raed nods.

"So tell the men to get him away from the gallows. Don't worry about anything else."

"Right."

"No matter what they see of Altair. No matter how he manages."

"…Right. _Dai,_ he will probably survive. He's, well, he always has before."

"Hm?" Malik, rolling up the map to put it away, shrugs. "Oh, well, if he does so be it. I don't care."

"I remember you cared last time," the other assassin points out. "You were hoping he'd die."

Malik busies himself with his bookshelves so he doesn't have to meet Raed's knowing look. "So dusty in here. And these are completely out of order…Raed? Was there something else you wanted?"

The man hesitates. "Lord…perhaps it isn't my place to say it, but…"

The _Dai_ pulls a book of maps out and shoves it further down the shelf. He couldn't work fast enough with both hands, much less one. "But what?" he snaps.

"But no one here would think ill of you if you forgave him. No one in this bureau. We would understand."

"Who the hell is saying I'll forgive him?" Malik grabs another book, and after than a third, slamming them so hard into the shelf that it rocks. "Who says I have anything to forgive? Like a pebble under my shoe, that's all he is, I hardly think of him except when I have to dig him out and throw him away. Who is saying otherwise? Who gave any of you permission to _speak_?"

"What he did he should be punished for. But I think…I would not want to watch you suffer, _Dai,_ and I've been at your side without complaint all this time, and I…I think when you hurt him it's only to hurt yourself worse. It would be better if you truly didn't care about Ibn La'Ahad. He isn't worth your anger."

"You're right," says Malik.

Raed blinks. "I am?"

"Yes. It isn't your place to say this to me."

With his back to his books Malik looks at the informer, his face hard, his tone unquestionable. A large leather-bound book is heavy in his hand. "Lives hang in the balance, Brother," he says, for he will say it to _someone_ today. "You are supposed to be helping Samir. Are you sure this is where you should be?"

"No," says Raed, "forgive me, _Dai_." He bows and leaves, hiding his hurt well, but Malik is an expert at all the layers and shades of disappointment. Raed's is clear to him. Something else is clear, too: the snapping ache in his wrist. With a curse he drops the book and it breaks its old spine against the ground. Malik holds his wrist to his chest and stands brooding. Some things are harder than they should be.

_-i-_

No news comes to him for some hours. He is restless as only a delegator can be restless, knowing that somewhere out there a fight is happening, and it is happening to _his_ but not to _him_. The air in the bureau is apprehensive, those assassins not involved in Samir's rescue finding reasons to be elsewhere. Malik waits for word, sketching a map to keep his hand busy, and wonders what it is he's really waiting for.

 _Your men are your pawns._ Is it true?

When Altair killed Talal half the city erupted. A dozen of Jerusalem's guards lost their lives to the assassin in the resultant chase, not even counting the handful who slipped off slick stone roofs. Altair's always been dramatic, so Malik expects more drama: more church bells ringing in warning, more panicked crowds, more idiot novices knocking over market stalls. But the first he hears of the mission's outcome is from Altair himself, who drops in through the roof grate late that evening with bloody hands and a bloody feather, and his precious cowl torn.

Malik looks at him with surprise. Majd Addin is—was—regent! He should have been guarded like a king. Yet somehow Altair has escaped. "Jerusalem needs a new ruler," the bloodied man says.

"So I have heard," the _Dai_ lies. Why give the novice a chance to gloat at being faster than Malik's spies? He nods distractedly at Altair's feather and tries to concentrate on drawing a straight line.

"What's this? No words of wisdom for me?" Altair stalks closer to the counter, his words a clear challenge. "Surely I have failed in some spectacular fashion."

"You preformed as an assassin should: no more, no less. That you expect praise for merely doing as told, however, troubles me."

The pause is fraught and unhappy. Altair says, "It seems everything I do troubles you."

"Reflect on that," Malik tells him with a certain manic cheer. Here, he has _not_ forgiven. _See, Kadar? See how loyal your brother is?_ "But do so on your way back to Masyaf. Your work here is done."

Altair pulls his cowl over his face and turns to leave. But he only gets a few steps in before Malik calls him back: "Wait," he hesitates to say. "Before you go."

"What is it?"

"I've had no word yet from my men. How went the execution itself? Did you prevent it?"

"Yes, the captives were alive when I attacked. Majd Addin admitted his crimes were done out of bloodlust and greed. Al Mualim was right to want him dead."

"Al Mualim is always right, so they tell me." Malik waves that away. "But the assassin. Did you see him? Was he…?"

Altair studies him, levelly. "He was alive the last I saw."

"Fine. Fine, then." Malik slips out from behind the counter and walks to the anteroom, followed by the other man. The first stars are appearing beyond the roof grate. "They'll be here soon, I'm sure. It must be slow-going if Samir's injured."

There is no answer. It takes Malik a minute to realize he's alone in the bureau with Altair, but when he does something lurches in his gut. The other assassin leans against the wall, brushing against the mosaic tile, still expressionless as he crosses his arms. He looks like he belongs just where he stands, immovable, immutable. Never mind his grey robes and missing hidden blade: he is a Master Assassin to his blood. _Dai_ Malik feels outranked.

"That's all, then. You need to report to Al Mualim. Get out of here and get to it."

No answer. To be honest he wasn't expecting one.

"Altair? What keeps you here?" he asks weakly.

"I have something to do before returning to Masyaf."

"Oh?" he says, trying for disinterested, trying for aggravated, trying for _anything_. How angry he was last time—no, he is still angry! But this anger is stippled with a different sort of tension. It's as though Altair were a moldy cheese. "It must be important," Malik mentions, "to keep our Master waiting. It _is_ important…yes?"

"You would say so."

"Be out with it. I don't have time for guessing games, or space for loiterers."

Altair tilts his head towards his folded arms. "I'm waiting for our Brothers, too. To see how your man fares."

Malik snorts. "No, you're not."

God damn Altair for that sliver of a grin. "No, I'm not."

"Why, then? Forget the way back to Masyaf? Need a map?"

"I don't trust maps or food from you."

"Indeed you shouldn't. I'd send you to the middle of the sea. You never were smart enough to figure out swimming."

Altair straightens off the wall, with an eagerness he either can't or won't disguise. Malik watches him warily. "I want to talk to you before I go," the Son of None says.

"…I have nothing to say to you."

"Malik, listen."

"No." He turns his back. It helps hide the growing horror on his face and in his strumming heart. If Altair calls him _Dai_ again he is lost.

(He almost says it then: says what will chase after them both for years. Almost, but not quite. Not yet.)

"But I have been thinking about Al Mualim's orders, and the men he's had me kill. It's troubling. You should hear-…"

"I should hear nothing from you. I already know your concern is a farce. If you cared about others I wouldn't be _here_ , dressed like _this_."

"But today, at the execution, that man out to save his son was there, and—"

A clatter and a shout. Malik is saved by the assassins appearing on the roof. Altair pulls away from them, back into his corner, but the _Dai_ is secretly as grateful for the interruption as he is for the survival of his men.

Raed is one of them. He comes in ahead of the others, says to Malik, "It's done, _Dai,_ Addin is dead and Samir…" His voice trails off when he spots Altair, who only sneers and looks away.

Malik taps Raed on the shoulder. "Fetch bandages and water," he says. "And thread for stitches."

The others have propped Samir up against some pillows: he hunches over broken ribs and his face is horrid, swollen and gashed, his eyes half-shut and his nose bleeding. But the assassin is smiling and conscious. "He wanted the names of my fellow heretics," he says through puffed lips, "but I told him I didn't know any."

"Save the bad jokes for later," Malik admonishes lightly. "Here, lie back. Dream of those virgins you decided to keep waiting. Raed, hurry with the water."

"It's here, Lord."

"Good. And you, clean a space over there—boiling water on the stones, you hear me? Get rid of every speck of dirt. Samir needs a clean spot to rest in until those ribs heal."

In the midst of the hubbub, he hears Altair say, "Malik…" But it's easy to ignore him now.

Raed is pulling off Samir's shirt so Malik can get at the cuts there. It's too tricky to stitch with one hand, but he watches over the assassin he's selected to wield the needle and thread. Messy or uneven stitches are worth a beating in Malik's bureau. Why save a man from Templars only to lose him to clumsy hands? His role is to save his men and so he does…

"Malik," says the Son of None again. Five minutes ago he was a Master Assassin. Now he's as overlooked as any novice half his height. "The old man at the execution...he attacked Majd Addin's guards before I did. They cut him down just as I said."

"Deep breaths," Malik tells Samir, who grits his teeth through the needle's sting. "We'll only judge you a little if you faint."

"Are you listening?" says Altair. "They killed him but not his son. I saved the prisoners. There was no need for him to do anything. There was no need for him to die."

"Ow," Samir groans. "Fuck Addin's fat fingers!"

"Well," says Malik, "we know he didn't break your jaw. You have broken ribs, Samir, where are you finding the strength to yell?"

Altair says, "It was a waste."

"This hurts like the devil, fuck him! Ow!"

"I know," says Malik. "I know."

Samir moans and groans his way through the rest of his stitches, and Malik turning his face to check the bruising there, and the other assassins lovingly dragging him to his corner and dumping him on his ass. They are all relieved, Malik thinks, relieved that Samir is saved. Ribs heal and bruises fade; life is what's important. All assassins know that.

When Samir is settled for the night and the others are tending to themselves, when Malik turns to get the details of the rescue from Raed—that is when he realizes that Altair is gone. Still half-focused on Samir's ribs he breathes in, shakes his head, and he leaves Altair to the lonely road home. Or wherever it is the Son of None thinks he belongs.


	11. Chapter 8

**_Strange Dreams_ **

Malik has always belonged to the desert. It's baked itself into his skin.

There are a series of caves, some few hours ride north of Al Masyaf. Years ago, after a betrayal by an assassin named Binyamin nearly let the Templars conquer the fortress, Al Mualim turned the caves into an off-site storage facility of sorts. Weapons are stored in them, and barrels of food, and drinking water, and horse feed. Most assassins above a certain rank know the caves exist, but not their exact location or purpose.

After the flight from Masyaf all is chaos for a while; loyal assassins, many of them injured, not a few bringing their families along, all confused and angry, search out their Grandmaster. Malik gets the message across as best he can. He splits their followers into small groups, keeping the injured with those still able to fight, and sends them to the caves by different routes. Every time he stops his horse it seems there are another ten men chasing after him, seeking guidance.

Some of them may be spies. _Most_ of them may be spies. But there's no way to weed out the fickle, and no time either. The desert is no place to be caught unaware.

Altair is around, of course, quiet and unresponsive. Once they find Sef, hiding with some other men in a fir thicket, Malik sends Altair and his sons to the caves to prepare, to be there when the other assassins arrive. Order is important. If they have any hope of surviving this schism there must be leadership from the start.

And Altair does as Malik tells him, without complaint. Retreating leeched the starch from his shoulders; when assassins come to him, asking disbelieving questions or pledging their support, he looks through them like they are ghosts. Or like he is.

Darim and Sef are sharing a horse now, and they follow closely behind their father. Darim is angry, Sef baffled, both boys frightened. Just as all their kin. But though the Son of None is there in front of them, it isn't him at all. He doesn't bark orders and insults. He listens to Malik, and he tells those with questions to go talk to Malik, and he rides with one hand clamped around the pouch on his belt. It's hot and he's hurt and they're all of them exhausted, but he never complains.

The assassins are scattered and scared in this stifling desert, and their leader barely seems to notice. When he goes with his sons to the caves, those who stay behind with Malik all breathe sighs of relief.

The _Dai_ stays close to Masyaf for as long as he dares, sending others off until the road clears of men. Rauf waits with him, keeping busy by feeding their horses and readjusting his saddle. There is so much that needs to be done at the caves—there won't be enough room for all of them, and they can't hide there forever—but Malik stays stiff on his mount even as the last bits of sun sink behind the horizon.

"…It'll be a tough ride in the dark," says Rauf nervously, after a time. "I don't think anyone else is coming. Should we go?"

Malik is silent a moment. The hills, he told Raed to take Tazim to the hills…

Rauf says, "Word has gotten round. If anyone left near Masyaf wants to join us they know where to go. And, Malik…you look terrible."

"You're right. Yes." Malik knows it's too dangerous to put off leaving any longer. He will have to hope that Raed will be waiting at the caves when they arrive.

All he hears for at least an hour is their horses trotting down the pitted roads; it doesn't sound like they're being pursued. Abbas must be in the fortress, licking his wounds. The idiot, causing all this trouble over his own prejudices and a weapon he doesn't understand. What kind of Order could he ever possibly run?

But so many men stayed with him…

"So," says Rauf, jolting Malik from his brooding. "What now?"

"We go to the caves. We patch ourselves up. Take stock of who and what we have."

"And then? The fortress—we aren't going to let Abbas _keep_ it?"

"Of course not. We'll come up with a plan and counter-attack. I'm going to send messengers to the bureau of every major city, and the villages too, asking for aid. Abbas will be distracted with what he's done in Masyaf, but not for long. We have to make our first move before he does. We can't let him get his tendrils into our bureaus."

"Right. Um. My god, Malik, these aren't even Templars. Our own Brothers betrayed us! Abbas was our friend."

Malik keeps his eyes on the scenery, on the craggy black hills under the moonlight and the shower of stars overhead. He has traveled through the dark many times, but the first trip is always the one he remembers: Malik and Kadar, two lost little boys looking up at the stars…

"Lord Malik?"

"Please don't call me that. Not now or ever again. I hate that title."

"Sorry." Rauf tries to brighten. "At least it wasn't a total rout. At least half of the men came with us. Maybe more! And the ones stationed elsewhere will probably also, because..."

"Because they don't know Altair as well? Because he hasn't been able to piss them off?"

"No, no, that isn't what I meant," Rauf protests.

"The men who fought for Abbas didn't pick him because he's the better leader. He's a waste!"

"…He _was_ trained, same as us. And we do know him very well…"

"Abbas is an idiot. Ali leads him around by the ring in his nose. But Altair is _mean_ ," Malik spits, "and he doesn't say _please-thank you_ to the novices, and he actually expects his assassins to do as they should without needing to be told. So, of course, half our Brotherhood decides to follow Master Abbas. Dimwits, all of them."

Rauf doesn't say anything. Angered now, Malik slows his horse, and reaches for Rauf's reins to slow his as well. "Isn't that so?" he demands of the squirming assassin. "Altair is by far the best leader we've ever had, but still they turned against him. Because he isn't _nice_!"

"It isn't just that," Rauf mumbles. Even in the near-total dark Malik can see his miserable expression, his longing to be anywhere but here just now.

"Then what else is it?"

"Malik, come on, be angry at Altair, not me. You're always angry at him, he's used to it."

"We've got hours yet to ride and I can make them long indeed, Rauf. _What else is it_? The men don't all like Altair, fine, no one said they had to, but to go this far-!"

Rauf brings his hands to his head, the picture of a man suffering. "It's not just that they don't like Altair," he says uneasily. "They don't _trust_ him."

Malik looks at him a bit. Then drops his horse's reins and sinks back into his saddle.

"This can't be a surprise, not really, after everything."

"Everyone tells me I should hate Altair Ibn La'Ahad," Malik announces. "Everyone feels oh so betrayed over what he's done. Funny how the only one he actually betrayed has no wish to carry the grudge!"

"It's not just that. The way he speaks to us… _yes_ ," Rauf says quickly, before the other man can interrupt, "I _know_ that's just how he is. It doesn't bother me. But some of the newer men, the novices, they were bothered. And all this talk of Mongols, of some new Templar army…not all of the men know him the way we do. They don't remember how it was, when the Templars were everywhere causing us grief. They don't remember Al Mualim. They just see their leader talking about invisible Mongols to weird orbs. Meanwhile their homes are still being attacked."

"We've done everything we could for those villages. We offered them protection."

"And they were attacked once they turned him down," Rauf mutters.

Malik stares, dumbstruck. "You don't believe Altair is the one who attacked those villages? What, is he also Robert de Sablé wearing a wig? Allah's sake, Rauf! _Abbas_ is our friend and we're so surprised by _Abbas_ but Altair—he grew up with us too! Why don't you worry about him? Why don't you—"

"Malik!" Rauf waves his hands, a touch frantic. "Peace, peace! No one blames you for any of this. We all know what you've been through, you work harder than anyone should."

"But you think Altair is a traitor," Malik smirks. "Spare me your judgment of character, it's a touch _suspect_."

" _Khara,"_ Rauf moans. "Malik, please, calm down. I don't think Altair's a traitor."

"Clearly."

"I don't! But you…you aren't…"

"I'm not what?"

"You aren't going to strangle me if I finish my sentence?!"

That breaks the tension a bit: Malik is so beaten up from the fighting he could hardly pull a weed, and Rauf sounds so panicked. He laughs, wearily, and shakes his head.

"Well, Malik, you're not around. You can't be, you're the Order's second, you're frighteningly busy, plus you have your son. It's understandable. But I _am_ around, at the training rings night and day, and I hear what the others say when they know you aren't there."

"They fear me, do they?"

"They know your loyalty is to Altair," Rauf says soberly. "But their loyalty is to the Order first. Can you blame them? Is that wrong?"

_No, it isn't wrong,_ Malik thinks. But instead he just motions for Rauf to continue.

"They're worried about the Mongols. They're worried about their villages. They're worried about the Grandmaster they never see! The Grandmaster who brings in a Templar wife— _I_ know Maria is trustworthy, Malik, but _they_ don't, and they have to know if you want them on your side. Then Abbas and Ali show up, and damn me if Ali isn't a golden-tongued snake in the grass!

"I tried to tell you, when Altair would insult Abbas. The others, the new ones, they don't all agree with you. Their image of Abbas isn't of a pouty fool knocking himself out with the Piece of Eden, it's of Abbas the old-timer, daring to stand up to the Master. Abbas the teacher of Ali, who is _so_ friendly and speaks _so_ well, who points out that their families still aren't safe and why isn't Altair doing anything about it?"

Rauf says, urgently, "The Order's been betrayed by its Master before. Why couldn't it happen again? When everyone knows Altair is so caught up with the Piece of Eden that not even you can stop him. God, that thing, Malik. What is it? I saw what it did in the village. It brought Kadar back! How…?"

"I don't know," Malik breathes, "I don't know, I don't…"

"If you don't then the rest of us certainly won't have a chance in hell. And that's a problem, don't you see? Even for those of us who have always been there, those of us who would die for Altair…who is it we are fighting for?"

"You fight for the same man you've always known, Rauf. He isn't Al Mualim. Don't you think I'd have stepped in long ago if he were?"

"All I think," says Rauf, "is that I've been chased out of my own training ring by the students I lectured last week! We fought in our _home_ today, the only place most of us have. I know Masyaf isn't the same for you since Kadar died, but it's still ours. We lost our home fighting our friends in _his_ name." Suddenly, flinching as if struck, Rauf cries out, "Abbas was my _friend_ and I betrayed him for you! And you still call me a traitor!"

The land takes his grief. It is ancient, greater than any army, and it has swallowed countless tears, but there is always room in Syria's desert for more.

Malik and Rauf aren't riding anymore. They sit on their horses and stare at each other.

" _Afwan_ ," Rauf says to his lap. "I'm sorry, Brother."

"No. I am." Perhaps the darkness makes it easier to say. "…I lied when I said I don't carry a grudge. I think Abbas winning converts is worse for me because I do understand how he does."

Rauf risks a laugh. "Altair doesn't make life easy." He dithers, glancing sideways at Malik. If it weren't night the _Dai_ might swear he was blushing. "Um, but, how can you still blame him for what he did and fight with him at the same time? Not fight _with_ him, I mean—well, you know what I mean, I mean…"

"You mean…?"

Definitely a blush. And some fresh squirming. "Just…you know, like I said, I hear the men talking, and they seem to think…I mean, I don't know, what do I know, I go to the brothel and I'm happy. Dima's fine, by the way, I made sure she was somewhere safe from Abbas, not that I really think he would have done anything but who can say about that serpent Ali…"

Malik smiles. "I'm still waiting to hear what you mean about the men talking."

"Now, Malik, we've been friends forever, so you know _I_ don't believe a word…er…or, I don't care about a word, er…"

Malik nods. "Shall we get moving?"

"Oh! Yes! Yes, please."

So they do, and Malik hums a bit, a little lighter now, the worst of the exhaustion lifted, and he waits until he's sure Rauf's relaxed himself to say with the slyest of smiles (because he _is_ still the _Dai_ , even now, even in retreat, and the _Dai_ of Jerusalem should always have the last word): "I suppose the men say that Altair and I are fucking."

Rauf falls right off his horse. Just like a cat falling out of a tree. Malik only partially blames himself for it, because Rauf always has been a notoriously bad rider. But he's kind enough to dismount his own horse and help the sputtering assassin to his feet.

"I've heard that gossip," he tells him. "Amazing how concerned people are with it. But Altair has a wife and children, doesn't he? So he can't be totally broken."

Rauf brushes himself off, sheepish. "Well, _I_ never believed it. Er. Not that it matters what I believe. You're my friend, plus you outrank me, plus you could fend me off with your one arm even if I had an extra two. But…I've always wondered why you forgave Altair. If you forgave him. How you did."

Malik looks to the sky again. There are no answers up there. There never were any, he thinks. But still people draw shapes out of stars and the wolves raise their heads to howl.

"I forgive Altair," he says. "I don't forgive Altair. He killed Kadar and I hate him. But Kadar was an assassin and assassins die, so I can't hate Altair for that. Except I wish he'd die. Sometimes I even think I'd die to make him happy."

Rauf nods knowingly. "We all feel it," he says. "That's why we follow him, even if he's cruel. Because he's so great and so _beyond_ and just…you see him and you're frightened, and awestruck. You pray he'll notice you but you're afraid of what he'll do."

"For me, it's different, I think. I don't know why."

"Different?"

"I need him without fearing him—or if I fear him, I fear the bits of him that _aren't_ him. The bits he uses as a shield. The Apple bits, I fear. The rest of him...Al Mualim used to treat Altair like both his son and a god. No wonder he's so screwed up, the poor bastard! People don't like gods, they fear them. And another god is the last thing this world needs."

Rauf cocks his head, considering. "And maybe another worshipper is the last thing Altair needs?"

"Yes. Something like that."

"Well!" Rauf jumps back on his horse, jaunty and assured, though a second after he's landed he's hunching over sore ribs. "With the two of you we're fine," he coughs out. "You keep the Order balanced out. I'm happy just to follow!"

Silence. He looks back to where Malik still stands unmoving by the roadway. "Am I following you…?"

Slowly, Malik shakes his head. "Not once we've beaten Abbas," he says. It hadn't really felt like anything the first time he said it: he was caught up in the twin horrors of losing Masyaf and finding his brother. But now it feels like something he can't ignore.

"What? Why not?"

"I'm leaving, Rauf. I'm going to leave."

"And go where? Back to Jerusalem? Does the bureau need you back?"

Malik whispers, "Altair needs me back. But I can't. He…he's seeing Kadar, Rauf. In his head. Because of the Piece of Eden. He's seeing Kadar and maybe it isn't real, but it's happening to him. Not to me. He'd even steal my ghosts away."

He knows Rauf is staring at him. Knows it as he remounts his horse and nudges his heels. Knows it as they start off yet again, at a fast trot.

Knows it as Masyaf falls further and further behind him and it doesn't feel like losing home. It feels like sloughing off a burden that he's carried far too long: like he only has to round the next bend in the road and there will be an oasis waiting for him, familiar and comforting. A quiet shepherding village near Damascus, where he can stop running and rest.

_-i-_

Whispers. Always whispers. Abbas has won and he's the Master and there are whispers trailing in his wake.

The men? The villagers? Abbas curses them and throws them in the cells and has a boy flogged for the insults he _knows_ he heard. But they don't stop, the whispers, they grow stronger. He has been Master of the Brotherhood for three days and all he can think to do is sit in the rubble of his victory with his head in his hands.

"Stop sulking," chides Ali. Loyal Ali. Ali who'd never whisper. "There's so much to get done!"

But Ali seems content to focus on only one of those things. Though Abbas thinks they should be concerned with the Order as it is, on rebuilding or reeducating or remembering the heart of the Creed, Ali cares only about those who aren't there. "Those scoundrels made off with it," he tells Abbas. "We must find them. We must find where they've hid."

Only, there are scarcely enough men left in any condition for a mission. Many of Abbas's men are novices, or lower-ranked journeymen; many of the high-ranks have gone. And many are dead. There are too many bodies to bury all at once and three days later they still lie stacked under trees and at the end of alleys. Most of the villagers are too frightened to leave their homes, much less claim their dead. Masyaf grows bloated with the horrid smell.

Ali says to bury their men and leave the others for later. "Worry about dead traitors last," he says. "Better for us if the rats get them. Saves us the work."

Abbas can hardly hear him for the white-touched whispers. Oh, Allah! Protect this servant of Your name in the struggle ahead.

Masyaf has long suffered under the rule of evil men. First Al Mualim, then Al Mualim's pupil. So many fled with Altair, blind to the last. Did they not see Abbas? Hear him? Abbas held the Apple of Eden! It sang to him of power, and he told it that it could not be more powerful than God; it sang to him of slavery, and he told it that all men are slaves before God first of all. It brought back the dead—

No. That was a trick. And it was so much better than the first time he held it, years ago, when it laughed…

Ali says he will get used to it, once they find it. He is _determined_ to find it. Ali says now that everyone has seen the Apple it has become the crown of the Brotherhood, and as long as the traitors hold it Abbas will never quite be in control. For his part, Abbas worries more about the village itself: it's still swamped with mercenaries, for instance, all those men paid off by Ali. They laugh in Abbas's face when he suggests they join the Order, but they don't leave, either. Instead they skulk around Masyaf, openly drinking and harassing the few women who dare to be out.

Ali says they're not a problem, though, and Ali is loyal, Ali would know. Ali says they can worry later about the mercenaries and the damaged fortress, the whereabouts of the women in the back garden who have all vanished since the battle. "The Apple first," says Ali. "We _must_ find it. And you must leave Altair's body hanging for all to see."

Sometimes in the past three days Abbas has thought that chasing down Altair now, when he has so obviously lost, amounts to vengeance. Murder, even. It amounts to something the Creed dislikes. It might not be _necessary_. But whenever he mentions the Creed to Ali, the frizz-haired man stares blankly for a second before waving a hand. "Everything is permitted," he shrugs; because Ali is _so_ loyal Abbas refrains from pointing out that the average novice has a better grasp on the actual meaning of the words.

The whispers tell Abbas he brought the dead back to suffer, in defiance of all his creeds. The whispers tell him the Apple has forgotten. The whispers tell him he is lost…

Abbas might go mad with the whispers if not for Ali's steady hand.

"We must find the Piece of Eden," says Ali firmly, almost shrilly, with a smile that's stretched. "We must kill Altair."

"And then I will be Grandmaster in everyone's eyes," says Abbas, not quite as firm.

"Oh, yes," says Ali. "Trust me on that."

_-i-_

_Brother?_ Ahki _? No, he's not you._

_No,_ says Abbas, caught and sweating. _I'm dreaming. No._

_This isn't your room. Altair should be here, and my brother maybe._

_It's mine now. Who let you in?_

_Huh. I know you, right? Hello. Seen Malik around?_

_I don't know where your brother is. I want to find him! I will find him!_

_Maybe. I dunno. If he fights you he'll win._

_He lost last time. Because of you he lost._

_I know._

_He can't beat me, neither of them can! Because the weapon creates you! You'll kill them both for me and then I'll never bring you out again._

_I know._

_That's what the Apple is. That's the truth._

_I guess it is. Oh well._

_-i-_

Five days and Altair has not been found. Nor the Apple. Ali says that Altair must be insane by now, truly and deeply insane, the insanity of men who talk to the dead as if it were a calling. Abbas thinks of Al Mualim's megalomania, and of Altair's. The Apple seems drawn to such men—so perhaps when he thinks of the others' egotism he is thinking of his own.

But he _fought_ with the Apple, when he held it. He is a man of God forcing it to do _his_ bidding. He is the rightful Grandmaster…!

Ali is too busy to bother with talk of God. Abbas knows because he has tried (surely after everything, a man as smart and devoted as Ali would be willing to hear the truth) and been brushed off. It feels a touch backwards; he tries to remember if anyone ever brushed off Altair and kept his head.

Abbas tries very hard to focus on what Ali is right to call important.

Al Masyaf has turned into a sieve. Every day a couple more assassins trickle away, to whereabouts unknown. Abbas puts spies on some of the more suspicious men but it's pointless. These are spies chasing spies, Brothers chasing Brothers. Who knows who's scheming how, and for whom? Men drift off, every day Masyaf is a little emptier, and the desert has never felt so close before. He has nightmares where he is smothered by great sandstorms, lost in dirt-bleeding clouds.

"For now we have the mercenaries," says Ali. "We can worry about recruitment once we have the Apple. Why can't we figure out where these men are going? It shouldn't be so hard."

"It's easy to get lost in the desert," Abbas says.

" _Hnn_. Easy to die in it, you mean. Even now I'm sure our enemy lies dead, bleached by the sun."

"I've sent spies. They always get shaken off."

"They allow themselves to be shaken. The next man who comes back empty-handed should be branded a collaborator and thrown off the cliff! If they struggle in the desert then so does Altair."

But Abbas remembers otherwise. He knows Malik has survived the desert before.

_-i-_

Eight days pass and they go to the mountain village, Abbas and Ali. Ali still wears his red-and-white. Soon after the victory Abbas tore through Altair's things searching for the dark Master's robes but could only find a pair set aside for mending, with wide rents in the front and sleeves. He wears them anyway, having had no time to track down a seamstress; they're too small for him and he sweats in the heavy velvet. Plus the wide sleeves get caught on the hilt of his swords. Who designed such impractical things? And why did Altair always look so effortless wearing them?

But he wears the hot, cumbrous robes and goes to the mountain village with Ali. Altair has not been found. Ali is grinning his stretched grin as they climb the paths.

(Abbas has never been a Master Assassin and he has not lost his finger—he found in Altair's quarters a hidden blade, a real one, the blade so clean it glistened in the half-dark, and he strapped it to his arm for a day to see how it would feel.

It gave him blisters where the brace rubbed on his wrist and had he dared to spring the blade he would have lost half his hand. So he threw it away, disgusted. No time to fool with such trinkets now. The Apple is the real weapon.)

The men of the village, and even most of the women and children, are waiting for them, clustered at the dead tree where everyone leaves their horses. They are silent, somber, watching the new Master of the Brotherhood with hooded eyes.

The brothel's widows are shuttered.

Abbas and Ali are both very much in control: they've brought with them bodyguards, of course, and they're armed. But Altair rarely used bodyguards, unless you counted Malik, so Abbas had been hesitant to take any until Ali pointed out the folly of such bravado in these tumultuous times. Besides, no one would think him _weak_. With such a retinue, handpicked by Ali because _certainly_ the Grandmaster didn't have the time, they would think him a king.

Ali steps forward now. "The traitor Altair Ibn La'Ahad hasn't been found," he says. "His band of cowards and liars is still out there. Many of you have given children to the Order. Children gossip. Surely someone here has heard where they're likely to go…"

No one says anything, for a minute. Abbas has tension running through his spine into the meat of him, the brace of the body after the arrowhead's sunk in but before the pain begins.

Then: "Our children gossip? It's you people who're the spies."

The crowd mutters. Abbas peers over the heads, one hand pulling nervously at his beard. "Who said that?" he snaps, but subsides when Ali gives him that look that says, _Don't worry so, Master. Don't concern yourself with this_.

( _weak.)_

Ali motions people aside until the speaker is found. He's an old man, bent and bald beneath his prayer cap. Yet despite that there is a strange youth to his eyes; the color in his face is that of a man twenty years younger at least. "You have something to say, Grandfather?" Ali asks.

"Grandfather, eh? You don't look like any spawn of mine."

"Wisdom follows age, Grandfather. You must know the Brotherhood better than its Brothers. You must know where…"

"I know there was peace a bit and now there's fighting, people fighting over nonsense titles like they always do. But the assassins'r supposed to fight the invaders, not each other. I remember the old man of the mountain, kicking out the warlords 'round here. Kicking out the slavers. Keeping off the Crusaders. That was a leader," the old man says with flourish.

Abbas says, "Al Mualim was a traitor. Altair also. He was possessed and blood-mad! He would have thrown us all into meaningless wars just to keep himself amused."

The old man says, a touch wistful and a touch sad, "More than just him possessed around here. Playing with the spirits is Allah's work, not ours. I'm beginning to see my punishment now."

"Who said anything about spirits?!" Abbas yells, deeply alarmed and ashamed of being alarmed, in front of all these villagers and that _stupid_ old man. "No one asked you for your worthless opinions. Stay silent if you can't help." _weak_ "I said, enough!"

"Master," Ali intersects, "calm yourself."

At the same time another villager says, "Forgive him, Master. He's too old to know what he means." Abbas looks at the eyes of the crowd and sees fear, and it reflects like golden light on Ali's face but Abbas just feels sick.

"I'm ninety-seven," says the old man indignantly, "or maybe ninety-eight? But _never_ mad, oh no. Not like some around. And my son died for you so I've the right to speak!"

"He babbles like this all the time lately," the other villager says, but Ali waves the pleas off with a smile.

The old man ignores them both. "The problem with you assassins is you keep trusting it, 'cause it tells you pretty things you like to hear," he says.

"It?" Abbas manages. "What _it_?"

" _They'll come back,_ oh yes, they're coming back alright, little shreds of ghost breathing in your ear, but you can't control 'em, they're too angry. They control you and mock you and that's how they want it. Now you're the slave. Maybe it hurts to be stuck between life and death. Allah forgive me, I was greedy but I thought…"

Ali says calmly, "You think too much, Grandfather," and Abbas sees the future as clear as if he held the Piece of Eden, sees it in the light on his friend's face.

He thinks: _Ali is going to want to kill him. Assassins never kill civilians here and the greybeard doesn't know what he says. But I owe everything to Ali._

Ali says, "Has anyone in this village ever actually pledged allegiance to the assassins, Master?"

"Well—that isn't our way, to demand it."

"But why not, when these shacks sit on our doorstep and look to us for all their needs? I think they should pledge their fidelity to you. To their new Master."

"But I am the Master of the Brotherhood, not of all of them."

"If you are good enough for their sons you are good enough for _them_. We'll have them bow, and talk…"

" _Aʿudhu billah_ ," calls the old man. "I seek refuge with God, he is the greatest."

"Ali, enough of this chase. Let Altair alone for now. I want him dead same as you but there's so much else-…"

" _There is nothing else_. Not until we, until you have what is rightfully yours. Don't worry so, it won't take long. They'll pledge and prove themselves or else they'll lack for what we've always given them. Someone here knows where Altair's gone."

"Even so, the Creed is for the Brotherhood. It's never been meant for them."

"Until now. You are the Master! You decide what is right!"

"I'm not _Allah_ , Ali. That is Altair's problem, he thought that he was."

"Altair has many problems, Master, but he was never—"

_weak_

"Master Abbas, what is it? Why do you flinch?"

_I should pray,_ Abbas tries to say, pale and worn up as thorn bushes in the scouring wind. _Allah give me strength against these demons._ But there is no answer, though his faith has survived the worst times in his life: only Ali tapping his foot and the old man nodding, as if he knew.

Another villager steps forward, anxious. "Assassins," he says, "we don't know where Altair has gone. If we did we would tell you. Now, please…"

"I believe you," says Ali, bobbing with delight. "I do believe you, we _both_ believe you, I would only like to ask—"

"Ali! Lord!"

Ali tilts his head and all the villagers follow his gaze. Two men are coming up the path towards them, carrying a third between them. They're too far away yet to make out many details, but their outfits are not those of the Brotherhood, minus a delusory attempt with a red sash and cowl. But no silver ornamentation, and the ill-tied sashes are bunched over patched tunics, not robes. Mercenaries, then. Ali's men.

The man they hold is struggling to find his footing; they haul him at a pace far too fast for anyone so clearly injured, and only their tight grip on his arms keeps him upright. But though as they come closer his clothing proves torn and filthy, it is undoubtedly a high-ranked journeyman's costume.

"Why do they call for you first?" Abbas asks.

"They don't want to bother you," says Ali, calmly. "We fought a great battle. Why should you be bothered with every injured man?"

But something proves off the closer the mercenaries and their assassin cargo come. They really are _dragging_ the hurt man, with little care for how much pain he must be in, and anyway why would anyone drag the wounded all the way up this steep path to a nameless village? The healers are in Masyaf!

"Lord Ali," says one of the mercenaries when they arrive, going straight to him, but then the frizz-haired man gives him a certain kind of look and the man hurriedly bows towards Abbas. It's a short bow and the man's expression is openly insolent, but then, the mercenaries aren't _real_ assassins. The real assassin they throw on the ground at Ali's feet. The journeyman tries to right himself, then curls around his hurt and groans.

"What is this?" asks Ali. "Why are you bothering the Grandmaster?"

The taller mercenary grins. He's missing an eye and missing three fingers and uneven stitches misshape the skin below his right ear. His comrade could be his twin but for the height difference; the scars may be in different places and different parts may be missing, but the effect is all the same. Abbas has had many a target hire such men, and he's killed them many a time.

"Found him while we was searchin' the caves," says the tall man. "Got a broke arm and all torn-up insides but he still tried t'fight."

"You pulled him here from the river by a _broken arm_?" Abbas asks, incredulous. "No one's _paid_ you to torture our men!"

The mercenary glances at him. Shrugs. Looks back at Ali. "Not your man now. He's one'a the ones you said to watch out for."

Ali suddenly looks very interested. He waves off the mercenaries, who fall back to glower at the boneyard-silent crowd beyond, and calls over one of the bodyguards. "I want to see his face. Make him sit up."

The assassin hesitates: judging by the uniforms he's outranked by the wounded man. But Ali's expression bears no mercy and finally he takes hold of the man by his shoulder and the back of his neck and pulls him onto his knees.

The face is swollen, half the bones within it shattered, but Abbas needs the sparest second to recognize Raed.

Ali brightens.

Raed sways and his head sinks back on his neck. His eyes drift from Ali to Abbas without surprise, only a hatred pure as water from a mountain brook. He can't quite work his lips into a sneer but everyone sees him try.

"Hel _lo_ ," says Ali. "Did they leave you behind?"

Raed spits at him. It comes out bloody.

" _Tsk_. I have to tell you, I never thought you were very friendly. Tell me, where have Altair and Malik gone? I know you know. You'd lick the dirt from Malik's boots if he let you. Sort of funny, really, the dog with another dog for its master."

Raed says, struggling for the words, "And who are you…that you should decide the fate of your Brothers?"

"What? Abbas, what is he saying?"

Raed doesn't need a voice to taunt Abbas, who could sink into the earth. "It—it's part of the Creed," the Master mumbles. "Remember? You learnt it…"

"Right, right. Nothing is true, everything is permitted. And I shall do everything to this nothing unless he tells me where Altair and Malik are."

"C-Coming for you," Raed says. "You've…failed at everything. You couldn't even kill their children. I got Tazim out."

But Ali brushes that aside. "Never mind the breeding. Where is the _Apple_?"

"You speak of Master Altair's weapon." Again Raed tries to sneer. "You are so transparent. I know what you want. What you are."

Ali stares at him, hard. "No," he says. "You don't."

"Ah hah. Worried? Worried what I found in the caves?"

Abbas, confused and frustrated, cuts in: "What you found in the…? Raed, listen. You don't have to follow Malik to his grave. I am the Master now."

Raed doesn't look at him. "You are a prop," he says. "This has nothing…to do with you."

Ali says, "Tell me where the Apple of Eden is and I won't kill you. I'll, we'll forgive you and bring you to the healers if you talk."

"You don't know…about assassins. We don't fear death like you."

"But I bet you fear pain." Ali shakes his head. "Sad. All this over the last man to deserve it."

"Altair…is my Master. Malik, too. Him, I owe…everything…"

"Yes, yes, I'm sure you've a heartbreaking lament. That doesn't make it any less of a waste. If the man who sins is a sinner, what is the man who worships the man who sins?"

"Ask it yourself, liar," Raed snarls. "S-Stay your blade from the innocent…you have spit on our Creed from the m-moment you arrived!"

"Assassins and their Creed! I'm not talking about the Creed," Ali laughs.

"H-Hard to talk of…what you don't know."

"And what of what you don't know?" Ali grins; Abbas feels his stomach start to sink. "Your precious Malik whom you follow ceaselessly: what don't you know of him?"

"Nothing the likes of you c-could tell me."

"The problem with this Brotherhood is that no one _thinks_. All the gossip in the air and no one thinks to _use_ it."

"We aren't biddies at the well."

"No, you're worse. Even a biddy at the well would chase off the likes of Altair and Malik. For her honor, never mind theirs. What, do they have to rut naked in front of you before you open your eyes?"

Raed says nothing, then. Only pants and wraps his good arm around his chest, eyes narrowed as he looks from man to man. It seems even the birds have lost their tongues to the news.

"You lie," Raed says at last.

"No," says Abbas, quietly. "Malik as much as blurted it out to me years ago. Everyone suspects it. I'm sure you did too."

Ali waves a hand. "But by all means throw yourself on the rack for a couple of faggots distracted by their own narcissism. It must make you happy, so, go ahead."

" _La._ Whatever their choices—and whatever your lies—"

Ali purrs, "But it isn't a lie." Abbas, watching this, thinks he should be amused like Ali at the sight of Raed speechless and reddening. And tries to be. He's never liked Raed, the frowning, judgmental shit! But somehow Abbas keeps losing his good humor at the sight of Ali's reveling.

That is not what assassins do.

"Maybe you're jealous, hm?" Ali says, "You'd be his woman but he's already Altair's. Or maybe you're just horrified, as you should be. This is who you let lead you! The man you idolized ought to wear _hijab_ and veil, eh? Ought to chop off what he's got between his legs."

"Whatever his choices, I owe him my family," Raed shouts. "I will fight for him…in this world and the next. His sins are his own. As is my honor!"

"Mm," says Ali. "How dramatic."

"M-More than that. Threaten me as you'd like but you can't torture me. You won't dare. You'll wake up in cold sweat…thinking of what I might say."

Ali says, very quietly, "And why would I do that?"

"Because I _saw_. What you buried in the cave, I saw it, and I know what it means."

"Buried in the cave?" Ali interrupts. He's felt ten steps behind this whole week and he won't be left out any longer. "What do you mean? What does he mean, Ali?"

"I don't know," says Ali, but above his easy smile his eyes are fixed on Raed's trembling form. "Must be delirious."

"I'm not. You know…you know exactly…"

"Something buried in a cave," muses Ali. "A body? A weapon? Could be an ambush." He shrugs. "It wouldn't be what we're looking for, but I'll send men to check the river right away."

Then, somehow, Raed is on his feet, and he is yelling at Ali with both hands bent into claws. _Yell at me,_ Abbas wants to say. _I'm the Grandmaster._

"Cur," Raed says to Ali, "liar, I know what you are."

Ali clucks his tongue. "Loyal dog. Stop barking."

Raed is hunched and broken and there's no color to his face but he seems to grow a foot and stand as straight as a fortress wall. There is suddenly too much of him, he is everywhere Abbas looks. This strong, strong assassin. Malik's man, who will never obey Abbas. "I know," he says again, disdainful almost, as if he can't be bothered by the danger. He speaks loud enough for the villagers' sake, but couldn't care less what Abbas might think. "I saw the trunk, the helmet and robe…the cross…"

"Enough."

"You think you can trick all of us?"

"No use for a dog who can't heed commands."

"I curse your children's children, _Templar_ —"

Now wait, Abbas says, now wait a minute. Someone needs to explain this. Take Raed back to the fortress and make him explain. But though he says it—thinks he says it, means to say it—his orders are lost under the villagers' erupting outcry. Ali has a dagger in his hand, though it wasn't there one minute before, and he brings his hand around in an even stroke that doesn't match the crazy firelight in his dancing eyes. There is fresh blood on Raed's face and he lurches. Ali looks thrilled.

"Wait," says Abbas, louder.

Ali doesn't wait. He brings his hand down again and again, quick slashes, quick splatters of blood, and the villagers are flinching now and the bodyguards are uneasy, only the two mercenaries are unconcerned, and Ali keeps slashing slashing slashing while anger fights with joy in his eyes.

Raed stumbles and falls and there shouldn't be enough in him to _moan_ , much less talk, but he says something anyway, a woman's name: Abbas remembers the day Raed took a bride. The little dagger opens up Raed's back, his shoulder blades. The dirt beneath him cannot hope to absorb such heavy weeping. Pain twists him forward and he grabs at Ali's ankles, his knees, fingers fumbling for purchase. He starts to say his wife's name a second time but Ali brings the dagger down and _in_ and then there are no words.

Abbas stands there, clean and separate. Not touched by a drop of blood.

Ali tosses the dagger away, kicks the body off his legs.

"I…" the Grandmaster manages. "I did not tell you to kill him."

"Sorry, Master," says Ali easily. "I got carried away. I couldn't stand to see him lying to you and confusing everything up."

"He…he called you a Templar."

Ali giggles. "Honest, Master, I'd never even heard of Templars 'till I joined your Order. He would've said anything to divide us. But if I were really a Templar would I have helped you? Why would I bother, eh? Altair was the one with the power and the Piece of Eden. I helped you because we're assassins and we're friends. Right?"

"Right." Abbas stares at him almost desperately. Oh, God, how he's waited for such a friend. Allah wouldn't trick him. Not this faithful servant who has suffered more than his share. "But the cave…"

"Could be planted," Ali shrugs, "could be nothing. We'll check. But Templars have been around here before, right? Altair must be crazy if his best idea was trying to use some Crusader's last stand to frame me."

It makes sense, it makes so much sense. Abbas looks over Ali's shoulder at the villagers, and the other man follows his gaze. "They'll all respect you now," he says softly. "No one will scorn you again."

He raises his voice. "Find somewhere to throw the body," he barks to the villagers. "Thus the fate of all _loyal men_. Remember it when you see the vultures." And no one argues for the traditional Islamic rites or protests the disrespect. Even the insane old man is wordless and grim.

"Let's go back to Masyaf, Master," Ali says to Abbas. "We can come back here tomorrow."

When they head back down the mountain path, the assassin bodyguards and mercenaries fall behind; Abbas leads the way, as is proper, and finally the black robes he wears feel as though they fit.

_-i-_

He has the strangest dreams that night, repeated dreams that leave him shivering with terror while the horizon begins to lighten: he wakes from one into another, and each time it could almost be _Kadar_ he sees, sitting on the edge of his bed and staring, with nothing at all to say.


	12. Chapter 9

**_Vox Nihili_ **

There was a book Malik read once, borrowed from Dai Faraj. It spoke mostly of maps and triangulations, of the ghosts of roads and the newborn stars, but it also told of an ancient king. This king, cast out of his kingdom by a nephew's scheme, wandered in the wilderness for many months: a Moses without the followers, without the voice of God. Eventually he settled in a new place; in time he again became great. Malik remembers the book's sketches, but he can't remember the name of the king, or the fate of the treacherous nephew.

That king lived and died a long time ago. Malik doesn't know why any of it should matter now.

For a day and a half after the assassin remnants reach the caves the _Dai_ runs around trying to organize. He sets up a rationing system for the food and water; he cleans a spot for the wounded and puts any man who knows how to set a limb or swab a gash to work; he sets aside the smallest of the caves for himself and Altair and puts a heavy guard at the entrance; those who fled with their families he sends to a nearby village, where they might find actual beds for their wives. A few of the women of Masyaf's back garden are here too, somehow: they look at him with soft familiarity and when it turns out they are all trained in herbs and healing (Al Mualim's secrets at work even now) Malik shrugs off propriety and lets them help tend the injured men.

He wants to send Sef and Darim to the village with the families, but Darim refuses to go, and rather than get into a fight with the Master's child in front of everyone Malik waves him off in disgust. "Better they stay where they can't be kidnapped," Rauf points out, so Malik orders them to always stay within sight of the caves and promises he'll beat them himself if they disagree.

"If we were regular novices you wouldn't care," Darim says, sulky and overtired. "Everyone _else_ is getting ready to fight. And I saved you _and_ Father, you know that I can."

"But you are _not_ regular novices," Malik snaps, overtired himself. "And there are enough problems to handle without adding on the two of you."

"My father can handle them then. No one ever said it should be you."

" _Go sit by your father_. And don't tell me my place again."

Darim only sneers and pulls Sef off by his sleeve. He looks as if he's won something, and Malik isn't so sure he's wrong.

The rationing, the families, the heirs…and what else needs be done…?

A thousand things, all at once.

The men are uprooted and frightened, so Malik tries to calm them down through Rauf, who's good with crowds and chatter. Let the rumors be on their side for a change: say they will recover their strength and smash through Abbas's skeleton force. To add some meat to the gossip Malik gathers up four assassins who came to the caves from villages other than Masyaf, after hearing the news. Relying on their comparative energy, since they haven't had to fight their way here, Malik sends them off to deliver messages: one man to the bureau in Jerusalem, one to Acre, one to Damascus, and one to the assassins milling in Izmir. The messages are all the same.

_We have been betrayed. Give the Master your best men. Return with the messengers and be ready to fight._

And when the messengers are gone he finds some more and sends them to other villages, to beg supplies and round up stationed assassins. He does all this and a dozen things more, until the sun is low in a red sky and he's wobbly on his feet from exhaustion—he does all this to keep busy, while stragglers reach the caves in bunches or alone, and still there is no sign of Raed and Malik's child.

Finally a journeyman finds Malik where he's slumped against a cave wall, eyes shut, letting the stone's natural coolness soak through his flushed skin. " _Dai,_ " says the journeyman, "Your son is here."  
Malik runs, leaves the main cave mouth and is blinded by the sudden shock of sun. He stands quite dumb and useless for a moment, fumbling to raise his cowl over his eyes, and then someone touches his arm and he hears Tazim's impatient squawk and clarity comes to him, sharp as ice water against bare flesh.

Malik lowers his arm and Tazim is pushed into his grasp. He looks down at his son, sees a dirty, tear-streaked face and a pudgy hand swatting the air. The indignant baby squints up at his father and then wails, probably to prove a point. Instantly Malik starts swaying, rocking slightly on his heels without even meaning it. It calms Tazim down, it usually does, and only when his son's quiet does Malik realize it wasn't Raed who touched his arm.

There's a different man in front of him, vaguely familiar from the time in Jerusalem. Behind him are two other journeymen, standing on either side of an older woman in a purple scarf. The uniform makes everyone anonymous, but the woman…Malik knows her face.

He looks from Raed's wife to his sons. He braces for the news.

The journeyman who gave him Tazim says, " _Dai_ Malik, Raed told me to take your son to you, myself and some others—we traveled through the hills to be safe, it was a long journey. He stayed behind to keep the path clear and…and we haven't seen him since. Is he here? Did he beat us here? His sons came another way but haven't found him either."

Damn him. Damn everything. "I haven't seen him," Malik says, and tries not to notice the sour taste on his tongue.

"Aren't there still stragglers coming through?"

"There are."

"Then perhaps he will still come," one of the others says. "Father could still come."

"He could. I'll send a patrol to look for him, to find him if he's hurt…"

The words fall to the ground in lumps. Malik can hardly look at the others; he keeps his eyes on Tazim instead. He would make any sacrifice for this child. He would suffer any price…

Raed's son says, "If Father's died, he's died for the Order. He would not regret it."

Malik shakes his head. "The rest of us might. I don't want to believe it, not yet. I'll send a patrol. You should rest, you've had as rough a time as anyone. When I find something, I'll let you know."

"I'm not tired or hurt. I want to be on the patrol," the son says. His brother nods. So does the Jerusalem journeyman. Malik puts up a feeble protest because he feels he ought, but no one is fooled and no one is swayed. If it wasn't for Tazim Malik would probably put himself on the patrol too, never mind running the Order.

"I owe Raed everything," he says. "Everything."

The Jerusalem journeyman says fiercely, "We will find him."

" _Inshallah_ ," Malik says. God willing. If somewhere there is a god. If somewhere just this once. But he can't scrape the sourness from his tongue. Raed and his maddening sense of honor. Raed bent under the burdens of others. God damn it, Altair has been right all along, it's useless to keep close to anyone in this life. Useless to have family or friends.

 _Dangerous,_ Malik thinks. _Another week of_ _this_ _life and I might just start to believe that._ He nods at the men, tells them to rest and eat and come tomorrow's dawn he will send them out to find miracles. They all murmur ascent, and he turns to go.

But then Raed's wife speaks.

"My lord, your son is hungry," she says. "It must have been a difficult trek. You should feed him."

"I will, yes. His wet-nurse is here. Is there anything _you_ need? Some separate space…?"

She shrugs, hazel eyes flickering. "I didn't always understand my husband's choices," she says, as if she's answering some other question. "But I always trusted him. And I trusted the men he chose to follow."

Malik says, "He told me once that I should do whatever brings me peace. I rarely seem to take his advice, but he always gives it, along with his faith. And he…" Unexpectedly his throat closes; he chokes a breath through, but Tazim is making enough noise for both of them. Malik would like to tell this woman before him to envy the hot, simple grief of children. "He never understands what it is to be the person responsible for that faith. It's a frightening duty."

"Lord Malik. My husband died for you and for Grandmaster Altair. He told me to leave Masyaf and I did. Now I'm here, and I see you in front of me, with your child. And that much I can understand."

"We'll find him," says Malik. "I'll send out the patrol."

The meaningless promise can't touch her. She only regards him, unflinching, separate entirely from her assassin sons or the dirt that cakes the hems of her dress. "Malik," she says, then pauses, thoughtful: "But where, Lord Malik…where is Altair?"

_-i-_

Bad news: come two week's time from the battle and the heart and muscle of the true Brotherhood is still crammed into a series of sweltering caves, grumbling and glowering, stir-crazy with confused children underfoot. Food supplies are running low, but even the worst suffering could be bearable if not for the crushing wait, boredom mixed with frayed nerves. All these homeless men with swords and rumors, stewing in their sweat.

Most of the younger novices have been tasked with helping the women watch the wounded and mend clothes, and most take their orders dutifully, but Darim is livid. He's found a sword from somewhere, a ridiculous thing that must weigh half as much as he does, but he plants himself in a group of older men and cleans it for hours on end. Malik doesn't have the time to argue with him; at least Sef is content to watch Tazim.

Worse news: the messengers Malik sent to the bureaus have all sent pigeons back.

Jerusalem's bird is the first to arrive. Its bureau leader, a man Malik chose himself to serve in his absence, swears fealty up and down the thin paper. He adds that he is sending as many men as he think he can spare, to aid in the recapture of Masyaf. A pleasing outcome, although frankly Malik is not sure where he's going to _put_ those men.

The message from Acre, though, is less welcome. The old _Rafik_ Jabal has been dead for years, and that is a shame for more reasons than the obvious; he was there to witness Altair shaming Abbas at Al Mualim's burning, and he was there to quell the outrage after. A loyal man who saw the Son of None's rise and fall and rise again, and stood by the Creed to his last.

The new _Rafik_ is not someone Malik knows well, although he has heard from others that he is a weak man given to fretting in the bureau long after he should have decided a target's fate. The men under him grumble and ask to be moved elsewhere, or else grow fat in their sloth while their leader stalls.

It's an issue Malik thought he'd have time to deal with once the mysterious Mongols were gone. Now the man writes that, though Acre is a largely Christian city with several Christian assassins, and therefore should have no love for extremist Abbas, he cannot send any men to aid Altair. Things go poorly in Acre, he writes, there are uprisings and famines—as if there aren't _always_ uprisings and famines in Acre. Since the first round of crusades Acre has been a city tilting into disaster. Now the fool _Rafik_ uses that as an excuse. But at least he promises not to deal with Abbas's emissaries, should he send some.

The Damascus bureau leader can't even promise that.

Its assassins are largely lapsed Muslims, and Malik doesn't have the same connections there he has in Jerusalem, where most of the assassins are men who once fought directly under his command. His old friend and neighbor _Sayyid_ Hamid lived there, and was one of the Order's greatest dealers in information and arms—but only two years ago Malik said the _Janazah_ prayer and poured the three handfuls of dirt into the man's grave.

Being there felt like a sham. He hasn't thought himself Muslim or much of anything else since he was a child. Religion was his father's lifeblood, but for Malik it became something to read about in _Dai_ Faraj's books.

But Hamid was a friend, and Hamid had no sons left. So Malik said the prayers.

(And felt a crumbling inside for a man dying without family in a city he despised.)

And now there are no men left to go through but the Damascus _Rafik_ , who—writes the messenger on torn paper with a bloody thumbprint at the top—has clearly made his choice. The messenger was chased out of the bureau upon arrival, by an assassin of all people. He never even had a chance to speak to the _Rafik._

The messenger noted even as he fled that there were quite a lot of hard-eyed men in the bureau, men he didn't recognize. Men who looked less like Brothers and more like Ali's mercenaries.

But at least the Damascus _Rafik_ is no Acre ditherer. Malik does have to give him that.

The assassins in Izmir say they will come back. But they are very far away.

So the news is mostly bad, and then a fifth bird comes flapping in and its message is from Maria. She's incensed at the disaster, she's even more incensed at the damned Acre bureau leader, and she's absolutely coming to the caves. Malik pictures the former knight riding in to talk battle strategies, to plan a war. Well and good enough.

Then he pictures her discovering how he's handled Darim (to say nothing of her husband). Her boy, her first-born, her heir, her son who Malik was supposed to be watching crash-landed onto an Apple-wielding Abbas in the middle of a losing battle.

Malik A-Sayf fears very few people. He thinks that just now he might fear Maria most.

A tap on his shoulder. "Safety and peace, supposedly."

He turns, Maria's missive crumpled in his fist. Rauf looks at him, scratching at his chin. Usually he keeps his lower face masked, but not in exile, so Malik can see the strands of white in his beard. Ridiculous. They're all of them getting old.

"Malik, we have a problem."

" _Do_ we."

"I mean another problem. A side problem. If the major problem is a tumor then this is a side-growth…"

"Rauf. What's the problem?"

"One of the assassins—Rizq, I don't know if you know him—says he wants to leave. He's from around here, and he says hiding in caves isn't what he agreed to. It isn't in the Creed, he says."

Malik rubs at his eyes. There's a ball of pressure there, fatigue congealing around stress, and he would feel ten years younger if he could just _remove_ it. "Allow me a guess," he says, "his friends all agree with him and he has a lot of friends."

"Er, yes. But also—"

" _Also_?"

"Also there are those who aren't his friends, and they're saying he's actually an Abbas spy going to give us all up. Which, it isn't so hard to imagine. I don't trust Rizq half as much as I trusted the man who nearly took my fingers off back in Masyaf. And him I had to kill! Who knows, Malik, who knows about any of it? It's no easy thing running an army."

Maybe that's what spurs him: what Rauf says. Or maybe it's that the patrols he sends out daily always come back without Raed. Maybe it's the mutters of a horror in Al Masyaf, the people hiding in their homes while Ali raves and Abbas looks misplaced. Maybe it's the grumbling army that was never meant to _be_ an army, crammed into storage rooms like some _khalīfah_ 's mistreated servants.

Maybe it's all those things. Maybe it's that Malik is tired of playing Grandmaster while the real Grandmaster stays silent.

No one begrudges their leaders their private room, even with the crowding, it's so small. But that could change. Malik, busy as he is, has hardly been in there, can hardly remember what it means to eat and sleep and relax. Sef usually takes Tazim outside, in front of the cavern mouth where the guards can see them, for the fresh air. Darim has embedded himself with those journeymen. Most days it's only Altair inside.

Malik balls up Maria's letter and stalks in past the guards.

"Safety and peace," he says, "although I'd like to remind you we have neither."

Altair has his back to the entranceway. The massive barrels of grain have been dragged out to make room but the dirt floor is still pockmarked by their late presence. In one of these indentations sits the Son of None, alone as ever. Alone as he's always professed to prefer.

The pouch containing the Apple rests next to him. Angry words dance behind Malik's teeth, frustrated and still without aim. Altair has yet to touch it in the caves, at least that Malik's seen.

"Well then, Grandmaster, which piece of bad news would you like to hear first?" He waits. No response. "Our food supplies are running low. But that you knew already. Some of the women are complaining about some of the men, and some of our more enlightened Brothers are complaining about our less enlightened Sisters. But I'm sure I told you this two days ago. Well?"

Nothing. Malik taps the wrinkled parchment to his thigh, then lets it drop. "Your wife is coming," he says. "They still haven't found Raed. He was loyal. And my friend."

Altair seems to consider this, tilting his head. But head tilts aren't what Malik's after. "Goddamn it, novice," he exhales. "Will you sit here and do nothing forever? You're supposed to be the Brotherhood's protector. Nothing is true, everything is permitted, do you remember it? Damn you, will you cower now of all times? You? You listen to no one. You never lose."

The Son of None looks at his Apple, not at his second.

"Abbas cannot be allowed to control the Order's heart much longer. He'll destroy everything you've built! Meanwhile you sit here and you sulk."

Finally, Altair stirs. He shoots Malik one of his better glares and says: "I do not sulk."

"And yet what I see before me says otherwise."

"I am _considering_."

"You've been considering for weeks. There's no more time for considering!"

"Should I lead my men blindly, then? You're the one who always used to lecture me about patience and preparation. 'You cannot know anything, you must always expect to be wrong.' Didn't you say it?"

"I said it."

"Fine. Then I am preparing."

Under these circumstances smug Altair is irritating but acceptable. Malik goes to him, tucks his legs underneath himself and leans forward. "At least tell me what you're preparing."

"It's a difficult mission," Altair murmurs. "We could storm the gates as the Templars did. Maria is an expert general, and we might have the sheer force of numbers to break through. Either way men will die by the dozens if not the hundreds, numbers the Order won't sustain. To say nothing of the well-armed losers afterwards.

"Or," he continues, "we might negotiate. Maria is also an expect tactician, though I doubt Abbas will talk to her. And though I'd have to feed my tongue to the vultures to treat with the likes of him."

Malik snorts. "True enough."

"We could surrender." Now Altair is grinning darkly. He looks almost his usual self. "Abbas will probably kill both of us, and our families to make sure. He'll try to run the Brotherhood like a Caliphate and it'll be overwhelmed by someone's army within the year. Perhaps he'll keep one of us alive for torture. Then at least we'll be around to laugh."

"You're forgetting one option," Malik says. "You could take the Apple."

Altair snaps up his head. He frowns, peers through slitted eyes; Malik sits still, knowing he's under the weight of Altair's Eagle's Vision.

" _You_ would suggest that? All of a sudden, after…ah. I see." His eyes stay slits, his voice freezes. But in his shoulders there's a definite and childish slump. "You mean to say that I may as well use the Apple, since you won't be around to lecture. What do you care what it brings back or who it corrupts?" He flicks a hand out at the bare room. "You won't be there. You sit and talk war with me for laughs, or else you manage things here just to rub in how lost I'll be once you're gone. You don't care about any of this. It's just your payback for—for that ghost."

" _Hottaha fi teezak_ ," Malik says hotly. "Stick it up your ass."

"…Mm." Some of the starch leaks from Altair's voice. "I suppose that was rude."

"You should be ashamed."

"I apologize."

"No, you don't." And no he doesn't. Malik shakes his head. "Listen, Altair. I know what needs to be done. It came to me just before, when Rauf was talking…he said it was no easy thing to run an army. And he was right even though he was wrong. We're trying to run an army, you and I, and we're _not very good at it_."

The _Dai_ speaks quickly now. "You said it yourself, this is a tough mission. And what mission ever saw us lead an army against the Templars? Against the most dangerous men we sent one man, two men. Who killed Robert de Sablé, Altair? Not an army. Not a general's bodyguards. You."

Altair catches his meaning quick. He frowns, but his eyes are dancing. "Then I should go alone and execute Abbas. Dab a feather in his blood. Report his death to the local bureau."

"Not alone. I'll go with you. Ali is there also, don't forget: a second target. Two targets for two men. We find them, we kill them, we vanish. Like shadows of hell." He meets Altair's eye and holds it. Hard. "For such well-guarded targets, we send Master Assassins, the best we have. You and I."

The moment holds and holds and holds and then Altair grumbles: "But missions we go on together tend to be disasters." Malik blinks.

Then he is snickering so hard they're almost giggles. _Giggling_ , while the Eagle of Masyaf preens like a peacock. Uglier than a peacock, though. Maybe a peahen? Now Malik is half-hysterical. How out of character, but— _Altair the peahen of Masyaf_.

Said peahen seems to realize he's lost control somewhere. He prods Malik's leg. "It isn't funny. What if we should fail?"

Malik chokes down his laughter, more or less. "Then we die, as with any assassin on a failed mission. Then Rauf and Maria are in charge. They can run the Order in tandem. He's good with the men and he knows our traditions, she's a skilled fighter and her outside contacts are key. And if they should fall then someone else will take their place. The Brotherhood isn't a person, Altair. You killed and burned Al Mualim, nothing more."

"But the Apple…? Hardly a stealth weapon."

"A backup. Pure stealth is well and good but look at our targets. The assassins in Masyaf are just that. If we can't get past unseen at first, then we offer up our bait. Or I offer, I should say, offer to bring the artifact to Abbas. They'll suspect a trap but none of them will dare come near it, or stop me while I hold it. Abbas and Ali will come running. Meanwhile you…"

"Are in the shadows. Yes." Altair nods, tight and eager. Another notch on the wall, another story added to his legend. Robert and Al Mualim and Abbas…his first kill was unplanned (his first kill was Malik's fault) and since then he has never stopped killing. Never stopped trying to correct it.

Malik sits back, satisfied. Somewhere is the thought that if he dies he will leave his son twice an orphan, that he has no business making promises, that family can only condemn. But Altair also has that burden now. They suffer together, then. It's only fair.

Somewhere is the thought that this is his last mission, and then a life of peace, while Altair goes on killing to make up for the one that made him retch.

"A good plan…yes…clever, _Dai_ Malik, you've thought it through well. Even the Piece of Eden…"

"I said you should take the Apple," Malik shrugs. "I didn't say you should _use_ it."

_-i-_

They leave early, on a morning strangely cold for the season. Almost cold enough to make a man believe in ice. Three people know that they've left: Maria, still a day away by fast horse, and Rauf, crouched over a letter he's writing to his Dima in his crabbed, messy hand. And Raed's wife.

Malik went to her, knelt before her, told her he was off to repay an eternal debt. She only looked at him, candlelight an unreadable script across her face.

The available supply of horses is limited. Altair still manages to find a white stallion with flowing mane to ride, for the extra drama. Malik picks a brown mare so docile he has to keep nudging it, lest it forgets it's meant to walk.

They could make it to Masyaf well before sunset, but they plan to wait until morning to attack. Morning, before dawn, in that hazy sunless time where men on patrol rub sleepy eyes. The Brotherhood has always woken up early as a rule, and even if things have grown lax under Abbas's ineptness, there will still be some men up for dawn prayer. So the timing must be perfect. They make camp close to the village, but not so close that Abbas's patrols might stumble across them, and they wait.

At nightfall they build a fire. There's no hope or desire to sleep. They sit around the burning wood scraps instead. The fire hisses and pops, and runs smoky.

"You never were any good at building fires," Malik says.

"I don't need to waste time building one. I kill my target and leave."

"Truly, Altair," Malik sighs, "you will never change."

"Nor you."

At this the _Dai_ lifts an eyebrow. "No? I think I have changed many times."

"Your arm is nothing." Altair is wiping his hidden blade with the hem of his tunic, though it already shines like a fallen star. There are more stars still risen, untold eternities of them: a cool light, and an old one. Altair doesn't look up when he talks. "Nor your family. Nor mine. In the end we are both here, side by side in the desert waiting to strike."

"Yes, perhaps…" Malik pulls his robes tighter around his shoulders, feeling again the urge to use both arms in the process. How long does it take to unlearn instinct? How long did it take Altair to accept that he had children, and worse, that he loved them?

"Of course," says Altair, "you remember the first time."

For a moment Malik thinks he's talking of the childhood trek with Kadar, and he almost snaps that of course he remembers it. There are days when he remembers little else. What does Altair think, that he's lost the memory of his brother along with his body?

Or has he lost that? Ghosts from the Apple, cruelly warped phantasms signifying nothing and _yet_ —if he turns quick enough he might just see…

 _(It hurts to be here,_ the Kadar-thing said. But Malik has missed him for so long he almost doesn't care. Hurting here might be better than a painless void. Right? Wouldn't Kadar agree?)

But Altair isn't talking of Kadar in the desert. Why would he when he wasn't there? He continues, "The time we stole the book from the Templars and camped for the night," as if there could be no experience in the desert more important than that.

Malik doesn't know whether to feel relieved or disappointed. "Yes, I remember how you almost drowned," he says pointedly.

"Well, what about you?"

"What about me? I know how to swim. And I got us our horse." Malik certainly has not been keeping score _just in case_ the conversation should ever arise. Certainly not. "And translated the book of lists so we knew what we were looking at. And—"

"And went back to the Templars."

Altair prods at a loose ember off the fire with his boot, letting the ash darken the leather. Malik sighs again. "Yes. And went back to the Templars."

"Needlessly," adds Altair. "Your brother would have been fine."

"We didn't know that. We _don't_ know that. Allah's sake, will you never forget old arguments?"

"Hypocrite."

" _Bastard_." Malik pulls himself abruptly to his feet. Something in his back twinges, and in his lost arm too. He wonders where Altair hides his hurts. " _Mabrook_ , you've won that fight already! Going back was a waste of time and only served to cause me injury. I know! And in the end you were right!"

"Malik—"

"Is that why you brought him back? To make sure I remembered?"

"I never wanted to bring it back. Malik, it isn't Kadar. It's an illusion."

" _My_ illusion. Why do you get that too?"

"I don't know. The Apple likes to torment its wielder."

Malik says fiercely, "It would not be a torment for _me_ to speak to my brother," and Altair locks both eyes on the fire and, just barely, nods.

"But you were not the one who killed him," he says.

The _Dai_ considers the Son of None, thoughtful. Or angry. Or both.

"But," says Altair, "we have spoken of this before. In Jerusalem."

"Yes."

"This fire is more smoke than flame. Is there more wood?"

"Doubtless you can go pick some weeds, novice."

"When it's my arm that carries the hidden blade? Too risky. Go find some yourself."

"I'm going to go feed the horses. You should pick weeds so you don't freeze. Wait until after you kill Abbas to die in some spectacularly dumb manner. You'll be more useless then."

He turns his back on his Grandmaster's grumbling and strides over to the horses, both of which have been corralled in a little patch of dirt lined with half-dead trees. The fire, and the dumb novice guarding the fire, is more-or-less blocked from here. A relief. Altair was right to say their joint missions are always disasters…

Malik rubs a hand over his mount's neck, but stops. Both horses are standing quiet and with ears pricked—alert and wary, they nicker quietly at each other, eyes rolling. Malik pats his horse's neck again, head cocked.

Someone behind him steps on a twig and hisses, "Shh!"

He turns in a smooth circle, grabs the hand thrown up in a block, kicks the feet out from under the legs, plants a knee in the squirming back and jabs the face into the dirt with his elbow. Then he grabs the arm and pulls it backwards, hard, and he would pull it harder still, hard enough to pop the joint, if it weren't for the strangled voice that cries out: "Uncle…!"

Malik turns off the assassin's instincts and actually looks at who he's caught. Then he swears, with violence and creativity, and gets up. "God _damn_ it, Darim. Why are you here?"

Darim swipes sullenly at the dirt on his clothes. His sword knocks against his leg when he clambers back to his feet. "Came to help," he mutters.

"Help? Here? You followed us from the caves?"

"Uh huh." With his father's smirk: "And you didn't notice. Not even Father noticed. I crept after you the whole way, and Sef didn't even see me leave."

"Probably because the idea was too absurd even to comprehend. Little idiot, do you have any idea how much danger you could have walked into?"

"Of course. I don't care. I want to help."

"How could this infant help?"

"I'm not a kid, Uncle. Brothers younger than me go on missions all the time. I'm an assassin."

"You're a kid who happens to dress like an assassin," Malik grits out, "and if you're _very_ lucky one day you might become one!"

Darim glares. "Masyaf is my home too," he says, "and I'm the heir. Not you."

"That doesn't matter. Does this look like a training ring to you?"

"I don't _care_. Please, Uncle." He grabs at the front of Malik's robes: assassin's robes only, no cumbersome black for this mission. Startled, the older man tries to pry off fingers like a dead man's, stiff with rigor mortis. "You have to let me help. I'll do anything, it doesn't matter. I'll guard the horses."

"We're sending the horses back tomorrow. And you along with them! When your father sees you here he'll…"

"No, you can't send me back!" Darim looks as desperate as Malik's ever seen him. "Back to the caves with Sef to wait for Mother like a child. I'm not a child! I saved you both in Al Masyaf. I'm not afraid."

"That's the problem. A true assassin respects fear. If you were an assassin and not a novice you would…" Malik stops trying to peel Darim off and puts his hand to his forehead. "My god, I'm arguing with Altair. Are you his son or his double?"

"If I say I'm his double will you let me stay to fight? _Please_. I can do it, I won't get in your way."

"Why are you so determined to fight now, Darim? No one expects it of you. This mission is beyond most of the adult Order. It might be beyond your father and me."

"Because—because they, my mother, they called her…and Sef's always listening…" Darim struggles. "I'm Altair's son," he says, "I'm just as good as him." But when he sees Malik looks unswayed something else comes into his eyes, and he says with earnest feeling (it does sound like earnest feeling): "I have to protect my brother, don't I? And my mother. It's, ah. It's my duty as the eldest son."

 _We can do this. Think of how astonished your brother would be…You can avenge your_ Dai _, Malik. You can seek revenge._

"No," Malik murmurs. "You're not Altair's double at all."

Darim pats his side. "I've got my sword. I've got throwing knives. I'll do whatever you say. I have to do this for my family."

"They—we don't _need_ your help."

"Like your brother didn't need your help when you went back to the Templars? You don't _know_ that," Darim says sweetly.

"Wha…you eavesdropped?" Malik swats at him, ineffectively. "That conversation wasn't meant for you."

"But I did hear it."

"Fine. Then let's go find Grandmaster Altair, so we may all speak _freely_."

"Don't! He'll make me leave, I know he will. He doesn't trust me to do anything."

"I'm not going to lie to your father, Darim. He's my Master as much as he's your parent."

"It's not lying, it's not! I just…"

"You just?"

"I just want to help," says Darim, and balls both hands to his chest, and looks pleading. "Abbas tried to kill everyone I loved. Don't I get to fight back? Maybe you won't need me, but how can you know? Nothing is true, everything…"

"Don't quote at me."

"Uncle. Malik. … _Dai_ Malik, I want to go on a mission. I want to help."

"You can help by staying where it's safe."

"Safe for how long? I couldn't stand it if Abbas hurts Father, or if he finds Sef. I'd have to die."

"Don't be so dramatic."

"It's the truth. I swear it."

"Darim, listen to me…"

But just then what Malik's thinking is more important than what he says. He's thinking of a vast desert, dotted with hardscrabble villages and hunger and wolves. He's thinking of burdens. He's thinking of his little brother. He's thinking of cave walls collapsing, and those who turn around, and those who don't come back…

He's thinking that the Piece of Eden torments its wielder. He's not thinking that its wielder hardly knows torment at all, except that some hidden part of him is.

"I want to go on this mission," says Darim. Malik decides he should stick to thinking strategy. It's a preposterous idea. "I'll do whatever you tell me." Malik shakes his head.

"Ok," he says.


	13. Chapter 10

**_Bodies at the Arches_ **

This is the plan.

In the part of desert night so wet with stars it defeats darkness, the part of night that squeezes your insides with cold all the harsher because it knows that soon it must let day break its back: in the worst of the night Malik approaches. Altair, not asleep, nevertheless starts as if pulled out of a dream when Malik's hand begins its rustling.

"What," he says. Malik only smiles at him and settles over his torso, a knee to either side.

"Now? But after…" Altair rises on his elbows, teeth biting into his lip, sifting furiously through imagined scenarios to explain this one. "The devil would you do this _now_?"

"Shh," says Malik. It's slow-going, undoing the ties on Altair's shirtfront with only one hand, even a hand as clever as his. He bothers only up to the third one, enough so that he can pull away the fabric and expose the Master's chest. Altair is still demanding answers in a voice rent around the edges with breathless lust, but he groans and falls abruptly quiet when Malik's teeth close around his nipple.

(This is the plan: Malik has sent Darim out scouting. There's nothing to scout here but there's much he shouldn't see.)

"Malik," says Altair, and it's a tribute to his willpower that he can grab Malik by the shoulder and pull him up, momentarily stilling the mouth and hand. "What are you doing?"

He has to be careful here, because Altair isn't stupid. Many things, many unbearable things, the heat under Malik's skin and the prickling on his neck, but not stupid. The Grandmaster who rebuilt a wounded Order and ignored a ghostly Kadar cannot be dumb.

"Isn't it obvious? Like we never used to fuck on mission nights?"

"Fine, but after…" A narrowing of eyes, but Malik isn't fooled. The one hand may be on his shoulder, but the other is on his belly, burning holes through the fabric. Altair frowns, but only because he has to, only for show: "Are you Malik or some _djnni_ that's carried him off?"

Malik has been indulgent, but in the back of his mind the minutes are passing and the dawn is lurking. He doesn't have time to be still.

"Honestly," he says, flippant enough. "Why does forgiveness have to be tied to sex? This isn't about _you_. I haven't had time to do anything for a month, and tomorrow I'm off on a dangerous mission and maybe I'm about to die. No sense in wasting the night. But if you'd _rather not_ …"

But that's enough for Altair. With a growl—met by Malik's answering snarl, true enough that this has nothing to do with romance, this is practically two animals fucking—he flips the younger man over. In his haste he tries to strip them both at the same time until Malik points out that they'll freeze to death with the fire gone so low.

"Then what," Altair spits out, "do you _want_?"

"Touch me," Malik orders. "Touch me and touch yourself. Keep your hands instead of your mouth busy for a change."

And close your eyes, he adds. Yes…yes, just like that. Press yourself against me and…ah. Mh, yes, you're distracted now. Yes. And you like when I touch you, like this, under your clothes and everywhere else, you hardly know where my hand is going…and you hardly care…careful…

He waits until they are both almost at the brink. Forcing the cries back into his throat, he keeps his eyes wide upon the sight of Altair stroking faster now and utterly lost in himself, almost defenseless except you'd be a fool to think that, you'd be dead in seconds, and Altair would stand there naked wiping gore off his sword without a second glance. Almost…almost…

Now.

Malik pulls his hand back into his own pocket. A second later the feel of that hand on his cock crescendos and he forgets everything—but he'd planned for that as well and he's done what needed doing, he no longer needs to think—and his voice tangles with Altair's—God hope Darim's gone scouting _far_ away—

" _Fuck_ ," he shouts. "Fuck, fuck." And again as Altair collapses on top of him, caught in his own wave. "God _damn_ it. Altair, oh, fuck, oh…" But why should there be tears? Just the hint of them, pricking at the backs of his eyes. He perhaps didn't plan for this. "Fuck! Fuck you!" He claws at Altair's back, knees at his stomach, does his best to draw blood with all other purposes forgotten. The cowl's come off and he tears at his hair. "Oh, fuck, fuck you, Altair, fuck you, _fuck_ _you_..."

Altair stays still and lets him.

(Not the first time. Once they were in Jerusalem…)

Then Malik comes back to himself. With a little curse of surprise (because what foolishness has he held onto anyway?) he shoves Altair off and sits up to adjust his clothing, with all the pride he can muster. Altair folds his legs underneath him, readjusts his cowl and hunkers over, watching the other man from the corner of his vision.

No one says anything for a good minute and a half.

Then Malik huffs, "The fire has gone _completely_ out, novice," and bears himself away to find scrub to burn. It's safer out of Altair's eyesight after that embarrassing display.

And also:

This is part of the plan.

_-i-_

Come daybreak they set out—two men, and a boy behind. Malik says nothing to Altair of Darim. Says nothing of last night's first surprise, nor of the stalker he knows they have, the follower keeping careful and just out of sight. It isn't like Altair not to realize he's being followed.

But he doesn't seem to, and there are two plans, then, that must be followed: the assassinations, each man to his, secret and subtle, sudden as the wind whips off the fog; and the backup Altair will never admit to needing. The Grandmaster thinks that with Abbas and Ali both dead that the traitors, mercenaries and misled novices will be too demoralized to strike. He plans no retreat—how typical—but a victorious glower from the balcony of the fortress he will take back singlehandedly.

Malik thinks that a pretty dream, but unlikely. So he's tasked Darim with slipping into the village and keeping the river pass clear. Abbas knows it exists and will surely have set up guards, Malik told the boy; you must deal with them silently. Whatever happens that passage must be left open. Yes, Darim nodded, and then? And then, when the killing's done, there will be a way out while the rest of them panic. The assassins can return as a conquering force, approach Masyaf with full strength against a leaderless mob.

_We will accomplish it all, and you need only tie up a few guards and watch over one road. Altair need never know until it is over and you are preening. This is not revenge._

"Malik," says Altair as they ride, "we are almost at the arches."

"Yes. We should see the first guards soon. Try to leave me some."

"We'll split at the main gates and go separately from there. Once they're dead we can meet…"

"By the river stairs," Malik interrupts. "Just in case."

Altair clicks his tongue against his teeth but doesn't argue. Clearly he has other concerns.

"And afterwards? When it's over and we've won?"

"Assuming it's over and we've won—"

"An assassin must never assume. I know." He looks at his hands clutching the reins and narrows his eyes. "I know we will win. I feel it. Like when we were young, the youngest Master Assassins ever, and there was no triumph but we caused it and no loss but what we allowed."

Malik lets his eyes close, briefly. Yes, he remembers it too. It isn't only Altair's arrogance. He remembers that day in Damascus, and not only that day either but hundreds just the same, fighting back to back with Altair on the garden promenade, shoving soldiers off a ledge. Running all over the city like joyful madmen, and Altair _meant_ to be what he was and do what he did. Malik remembers his target that day—not the name, that's long forgotten, but the flabby face, the bejeweled hands—the arms' dealer's pleading—

"What joy in those days," says Altair, and he isn't wrong.

Malik says, "Fine. When it's over and we've won…?"

"What will you do then?"

The _Dai_ frowns. Doesn't answer.

"Will it be as you said? Will you go?"

Nothing. Altair bristles. "I wouldn't waste breath asking except for last night—"

"Look." Malik points. "The arches." And beneath them some white figures. No mercenaries; perhaps they've gone or are too lazy for boring guard shifts. But the assassins he sees are hardly better. They do the Order no credit; Altair and Malik are practically on top of them by the time they stir.

"Let's kill all of them," is the last thing Malik says before he leaps off his horse. "No need to leave anyone behind to raise alarms."

"Of course," Altair says, insulted at the thought that he would even need the reminder. But it really isn't for him that Malik says it. It's for their straggler, who's only a novice, after all.

Anyway. No time left to worry now. Years and years, and always bodies at the arches: Malik sinks his first dagger into a shocked journeyman's throat.

_-i-_

They slip their way inside the wooden gates, and either it's easy because they're so skilled or it's easy because there are only two assassins there and neither is particularly sharp. Altair steals away, through the buildings. He'll climb as soon as he can, leap from roof to roof, so silent that not even the roosting doves will be disturbed. Malik once would do the same, but it's not as easy with one hand. He makes sure his cowl is straight and sticks to the alleyways instead, taking the chance to see how Masyaf is fairing.

It seems quiet. It seems half-abandoned. The damage from the battle hasn't been repaired and many a home has a caved wall or burnt roof. Carrion crows, black and fat, have almost overtaken the resident doves—no sign of any hawks or eagles, even at the perches—and fly low over piles of refuse left rotting in the street. No housewife clears the trash or swats away the fighting, noisy birds.

The windows in the huts are all shuttered, the benches outside empty, the wells bare of women drawing water or old men chatting in the sun. Again and again Malik passes perches where there should be assassins, where once men stood in patrols of two or more, but which have been left empty now. The carrion crows circle overhead, cawing and cawing. Even the wildlife is wrong today.

Malik reaches the overlook, where the path bulges out over the lower levels of the village. He crouches behind a hay cart and wonders where the flags have gone. Why would Abbas remove the Brotherhood's colors?

But instead of flags there are three men, mercenaries judging from the clothes and weapons and sun-scarred faces. They've dragged a bench to the middle of the path but can't seem to figure out how benches work; it's something of a sight to see the one of them, especially, so drunk he keeps toppling backwards to the roaring laughter of his friends.

So. A Masyaf where villagers cower inside, where garbage-feeding crows have replaced eagles, and where there are more drunk mercenaries than actual assassins. Malik lifts his eyes up to the fortress above. It can look foreboding, it can look welcoming, it can look a sign of safety, but today it looks threatening as only an enemy's castle can.

"Ho, you! Boy!"

Malik blinks, pulls farther behind the cart, but it isn't him the mercenary's shouting for. Three assassins—actual assassins, a novice and two older journeymen—have just come into sight up the curving path, and one of the mercenaries rights himself with a belch. "Boy! C'mere."

The assassins all stop, gone grim-faced to a man. Malik wonders at their hesitating. "What do you want?" one of the journeymen calls, a note of warning in his voice.

The mercenary bellies up to the group. He's armed, and bringing a great deal of attention to it in how he walks, and yet none of the assassins rise to the challenge. He sneers at all of them, but especially the novice. "I'm _talkin'_ to yer," he says to the boy with a flash of brown teeth. Malik does have to give the novice credit for how little he flinches at the foul breath in his face. "Don't yer come when you're called?"

"I'm supposed to be on patrol," the novice mutters. His comrades are tense but quiet.

"Yer s'pposed to be treatin' us like honored guests. And we're out here in the hot sun, keepin' your shitheap safe, right? Y've got that army'a traitors breathin' down your neck and we're keepin' them off for yer."

"I'm sure they live in terror of you," the journeyman mutters. The mercenary raises his gaze to stare the man down, but keeps spitting in the novice's direction.

"S'pposed to be thankful for us. Showin' us gratitude. Right? Or'm I confused? Wanna ask the Master what he thinks?"

"Ok! I'm sorry," the boy bursts out. "We're just so undermanned."

"Not a man among yer. Just boy soldiers playin' pretend."

"What do you want?"

The mercenary bellows another laugh. "We're _thirsty,_ whelp! Call this being grateful? We're parched to the bone." Behind him, his friend falls off the bench again.

The novice winces. "It's hard to get it…and you're not supposed to drink in the village proper. Master Altair always said—"

"Master Alll-tah- _eee_ r," drawls the bully, and clamps a hand with fingers like cooked sausages to the novice's shoulders. " _Said bousak, koondeh,"_ he suggests, and neither of the journeymen say a thing in their Brother's defense.

Wilting visibly, the novice promises to fetch the drink. The mercenary kicks a sandaled, filthy foot into the boy's ankle—" _Anta lateef_ ," he laughs, "yer so kind!"—and waves the other two off like a shepherd waving off his barking dogs.

The journeymen trudge up the path, giving the benchful of idiots a wide berth, the very muttering picture of the dispossessed and disenchanted. "…to do," one is saying as they near the hay cart. "Can't fight them knowing the Master will take their side."

"I don't know," the other one says. "It isn't right. They aren't assassins, they shouldn't still be here."

"Fine, so _you_ tell the Master that. We were nervous around Altair? At least he never killed his own for disagreeing with him."

"He, uh, he probably staged all those village raids, though. I mean, that's what Abbas said…"

"I keep thinking of that man they found in the caves," the journeyman says thoughtfully. "It wasn't right, what they did to him, even if he was against us. It wasn't true to the Creed."

"Well, uh, yes, but…"

"They killed him," the journeyman says. "That Raed. I keep thinking of that when I see these hired slayers running free."

If he notices the hay cart rock, as though someone by it rocked too, he doesn't say.

The journeymen move out of sight, and several minutes behind them comes the crestfallen novice. He too passes in front of the hay cart—but unlike his Brothers he goes no further than that.

Malik presses his back to the cart and the boy to himself, his hand clamped over his mouth. "Don't stir," he whispers, "don't make a sound. I'm not going to hurt you."

Wide-eyed, the novice nods. Malik relaxes his grip a bit but keeps his hand over his mouth. "I'm one of you," he starts to say, but already the boy's noticed there's only one hand holding him and his face goes ashen. He struggles, then; Malik tightens his grip again and lets him wear himself out. "Calm down," he says over the novice's fearful moan. "I'm _not_ going to hurt you. We're both assassins, aren't we?"

He removes his hand then, to let him breathe. The novice licks his lips, deeply shaken. "You're _Dai_ Malik," he whispers back. "You're the enemy…"

"Am I? Ask yourself who seems the bigger enemy now, myself or those idiots out there?"

As if on cue the mercenary shouts, "Where are you with the drink, _koondeh_? Greedy cur, I'll wring your neck if you've run off with it."

The novice is very still for a moment, and then: "Why are you here? Are…are you going to…?"

"You don't know," says Malik, "you've never known and you'll never know. You're only a novice, after all, so why should you? You're safe."

"But you _are_ going to-! Is Master Altair here as well? It, with Master Ali it's, he said he'd treat the novices with respect but after he won the fortress he just let all the mercenaries lay about forever and said we have to do what they say. They aren't supposed to stay here like they're Brothers! And we're assassins, not servants."

Malik harrumphs. "Calls himself Master Ali now, does he? Telling. What does Master Abbas think of this?"

The novice whispers, "We never see him. Like with Master Altair but it's worse somehow. Um. He had a boy beaten once but that's all. I don't…" A hesitation that Malik is very interested in. "I don't think he's very happy."

"And where does such an unhappy man spend his days? Not in the great hall?" It's fortunate news. An assassination in such an open place would be hard even for Altair.

"Usually he's just in his rooms. I, er, don't know where those are."

"I can guess," says Malik. What would Abbas claim as his own? Why, anything that once belonged to Altair. Altair could kill a man in his own rooms without looking. Fortunate news indeed. "And Ali? Where has he gone?"

There's no uncertainty about that: "The back garden. He talks to mercenaries there, and that's where he met with all the village elders. He wanted them to plead loyalty like he was a king, but they wouldn't. He nearly threw one of them off the cliff."

"Did he? How do you know?"

"I, um, brought him a jug of wine," the novice admits with a sheepish grin.

"And then it took an awful lot longer to leave than it had to come in, I bet. Hm?" Malik smiles. "It's good to hear at least some of our novices haven't lost their spying edge. You can learn a lot with slow pours of wine."

" _Dai_ Malik? If you come back and Master Altair comes back then…will we be in trouble?"

"You, I doubt it. Some others…" Malik glances over the lip of the hay cart and finds that one of the mercenaries is now face down in his own reek. "Well, the Grandmaster can be so foul-natured." He gives the novice a gentle shove. "Go," he says. "Don't worry about fetching anything for that lot. Just find somewhere quiet and stay there. Don't talk to anyone. Be grateful for the anonymity of your rank."

The novice nods; Malik watches him run back down the path until he's out of sight. Malik plans to have blood on his blade long before that one finds a man to tell.

He sits back on his heels with a heavy sigh. Raed is dead. In some way he'd already known. Will his sons blame Malik the way Malik once blamed Altair? And if so, will Malik redeem himself the way Altair…?

But this isn't the time for remorse. No longer a _Dai_ or second or brother—now he is an assassin on a mission, and nothing else.

The back garden, then. But he won't be able to scale the cliff with only one arm, and he certainly can't stroll through the front gate. A puzzle only until he solves it, and then it will be a death sentence instead.

As he ducks out from behind the cart Malik throws a quick glance in the direction of the river path, not that he can see it from here. Has Darim got it clear yet? Even godless assassins must sometimes have faith.

_-i-_

Altair checks his rooms, of course—unchanged except for how the bed sheets have been scattered and twisted and dampened by sweat, a sight which brings a grim smile to his lips—and he glances into the main hall, and in some of the small hidden rooms where a Grandmaster, or a man pretending to be one, might linger. Finally he looks through a window in a narrow hallway suspended between fortress turrets, and below, in the back garden, is his target. Abbas is faced away from him, head angled towards the grass, but the black robe gives him away.

It's worth another smirk: he's stuck wearing the pair Altair's discarded for want of patching. How royal.

Altair considers. The decorative bars in the window can't be pulled loose, and he'll waste too much time going all the way around to climb up the cliff. Better to make his way down the fortress until he reaches the little overhanging wall that borders the garden on all sides but the drop-off. It'll make a decent springboard, but to get there he'll have to slink through who knows how many guards.

This is the fortress of the Brotherhood. This is the place of the Grandmaster. He will find his way.

Some small part of him grouses as he maneuvers through the halls that he should have to skulk his way through his own castle. But the rest of him thinks, as he comes up behind a man and leaves his neck twisted in place, only of the feel of thrashing, terrified flesh between his hands. It's assassination at its purist point, it's what he _is_. "Be at peace," he murmurs, to that man and the next. To every liar-Brother he must kill today.

 _I am trying_ , he thinks. _I am trying my best to be worthy of this._

The pouch at his side knocks gently against his hip. It's been quiet today…the ghost, that is. Suspiciously quiet, as if it's readying itself for a great gloat. And there isn't the feel of the Piece of Eden waiting at his shoulder to be used. Altair resists pulling out the Apple to check, though. He did promise Malik he wouldn't.

The assassin slips through the next window large enough to fit through and heads down. Could anyone else climb a wall this sheer? Could anyone else almost melt into the night-cooled stone?

He drops from perch to perch like a shadow, like less than a shadow, like the essence of an eagle: the talons and beak and predatory grace reshaped into a man. The Eagle of Masyaf, he's heard the men call him when they thought he couldn't hear. Just as Al Mualim was the Old Man of the Mountain.

It's a better nickname, anyway, Altair concedes. He'll have to thank them. If he can ever _face_ them without feeling like an usurped fool.

At least as a killer he knows what he's doing.

He nears the garden, dangling from a window with his feet braced against the wall. Below him a woman has joined Abbas, who's still turned away. Altair is mildly surprised that any of the women of the back garden would stay with someone as dogmatic as Abbas…then again, he only sees the one lady, with long black hair tied back with brown ribbon, dressed in a translucent robe drawn low across her breasts.

Someone above him yelps. Altair looks back up, right into a journeyman's startled eyes. He almost smiles; the trouble with sneaking around an assassin stronghold is that assassins know how to look down.

The journeyman opens his mouth to yell. Altair shoves himself up, over the window ledge, lifts his drawn legs between his straining arms and cracks the man in the chest with both feet. While the journeyman wheels backwards, Altair lowers his legs and with a neat little flip ends up inside the study room. He grabs the man by the hair, slams his face into the nearest table edge twice. By the second time the assassin moans and goes limp. Altair leaves him where he falls, turns back to the window and without hesitation hurls himself through.

He drops.

The garden wall slams against his feet.

He rises quickly along it, on his toes so the slate tiles don't clack, until he reaches the side of the fortress again. Here he can lurk where the wall overhangs the garden's edge but is overhung in turn by wide balconies above. There are fountains cut into the sloping landscape, thick grass in rich soil, fine pottery and plush cushions below him in the shade. Altair fought Al Mualim here. Fitting that Abbas should die here as well.

He will fight his enemies here forever—why else should it contain Kadar's grave?

(He can't see the grave from here, since Malik had it erected in a little corner by the edge of the cliff. Is it foolish to hope the ghost is over there, visiting itself, and thus too busy to intervene?)

Altair watches Abbas. He'd dropped too silently to be heard but still his lip curls a little at how easily Abbas is outwitted, how dumbly he bares his neck. He's looking at the woman now, his back to Altair. His vertebrae call love songs to the hidden blade.

The woman sits down next to Abbas, unsmiling. Altair feels more than hears the _swick_ of the hidden blade as it slides between his fingers. He brings the exposed metal to his mouth and kisses it. _No jeers?_ he asks the ghost. But it and the Apple are still silent. He felt so light climbing just now, as though he's finally gotten used to the artifact's impossible weight. Maybe he has. Maybe the worst that could be happened when the ghost spoke to Malik, maybe Altair is just strong enough that he could endure even that horror. Maybe he has broken the Apple, bent it to his will at last.

Hubris is dangerous, he reminds himself. And he has dallied here too long. Perhaps, if Malik has already killed Ali, he will be watching from somewhere. The kill must be perfect, just in case.

He loosens his muscles, steadies his breath. Leans forward. A perfect kill in the back garden, for Malik. In front of and below him, the woman slides a manicured finger along Abbas's inner thigh.

Altair leaps—

_has time to think in that millisecond between life and death that he's never seen Abbas act so casual with a woman before_

—and crashes down on top of his target with his full weight. His blade crunches through the spine and out the other side of the throat. The woman screams, leaps to her feet and runs. No guards come bursting through the garden gates as he'd expected. The body twitches, spasms as Altair pulls out and retracts his blade. Then it crumples onto its face. Blood streams from it, heading downhill, darkening the white-blue ceramic and staining the grass.

The Grandmaster straights up. He should say the mantra—he should say it—he _won't_. But he does keep himself from kicking those stupid old robes. "You've lost," he spits, "after everything. You idiot, you idiot. All your _life_ you hid behind God and jealousy when you could have been great. All your life a _waste_ …" And he nudges the body over with his foot, to face this Brother and say the Creed.

The robes are the Grandmaster's but the face isn't Abbas. The world goes just a little off-center.

The man is _young_ , first of all, hardly past shaving. And he has shaved, unlike Abbas with his bushy beard. The eyes are different, the face Oriental, probably a relatively recent recruit since only in the past couple of years has Altair made serious outreach that far East. And the hands are too free of callouses to hold swords tightly in dreams, as do Altair's hands, as do Abbas's hands, as do the hands of all assassins who survive past youth. The blood streams from the mouth and Altair doesn't have the power to put it back.

Someone lands lightly behind him. He whirls around, teeth bared, but it's Malik standing there, having found his own way to the garden wall.

"No Ali?" he asks. "Ah, but you've found your man."

"No, I haven't," Altair growls, and steps aside so that the _Dai_ can see. Malik's eyes widen just slightly.

"But he's wearing the robes. _Your_ robes."

"And he's the right height and body type, and with his back turned he looked just the same. And I have killed him."

" _Hnn_ ," Malik sighs, tensing his handsome face, "I wonder if they even told him he was going to die when they dressed him up and sat him out here…"

"We didn't," says a light, cheery voice. "Only told him it was a vital mission and had him on his way."

Altair and Malik turn on their heels as one. Guards are spilling through the garden gate—of course they are, that's no surprise—and with them Abbas looking blank-faced in regular whites, and Ali not even bothering to dress as an assassin, beaming from ear to ear, and, oh, and…

The Grandmaster is aware, vague in a way a Master Assassin never is, of how quickly Malik's face drops. He groans and Altair thinks, still vague, that he's never heard his second-in-command sound so old.

"You two are so good," Ali says, " _so good_. We never would have known you were here. He's not so good, though."

It is of course a ruse, because it has to be, because Altair knows where he left his sons. His family is with the others at the caves. Maria might have arrived today. His family is safe.

Ali has his hands clamped on the ruse's shoulders. His fingers are digging into the skin so tightly it must be painful, but the ruse's arms are tied behind its back and it can't do much else but bear it. "Don't look so surprised," Ali pretends to scold. "This is a reunion! Say hello."

"It's an illusion," Altair says to Malik, because after all he is very used to illusions, but Malik only looks at him with fear ( _Malik_ looks _frightened_ ) and Altair discovers he has no more oxygen left in his lungs.

"Say hello," says Ali again. He doesn't sound so cheerful now.

"Father," Darim cries. But Altair is silent with his suffocation, and can only stare at his son from a hundred worlds away.


	14. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A note for those innocents who've stumbled across this fic fresh: Those who've been following it since the beginning on fanfiction.net have been waiting for the next update since, er, 2014. Sorry.
> 
> As for how much longer there is to wait, stay tuned...

_**Like Silver Tried, or Gold** _

Sef sits at the mouth of one of the caves, in a little splinter of shade, out of the way. The desert is a lot of scrubbed nothing and then, suddenly, these hills. Maybe there are villages nearby, of the kind his father supposedly saves, with the people living in them wondering at the new half-army in their midst. His mother only just arrived two hours ago and sounds exhausted when she finds him there, fiddling idly with the silver decoration slung about his chest. He's never really known the point of it.

"Boys younger than you are finding ways to keep busy," she reminds him. "I think the horses need to be fed."

"Yes, _Ohm_ ," he says, but he doesn't move. She sighs, heavy, wilting in her Christian men's trousers and loose scarf. Even a month ago Sef might not have noticed her physical shift from soldier to mother—but he has grown, since then. He has aged beyond count.

"Sef, I'm sorry," his mother says, and squats down beside him in the sand. "I'm sorry I wasn't here. _Je suis désolé. I'm sorry. Aasef._ " She squints at him. "I don't know how to say it in any other languages."

Sef tries not to giggle and then he does. His mother's French sounds an awful lot like her Arabic—weird, in other words—which is fair considering his own middling English might as well be French. But it makes her happy when he tries to speak to her in her native tongue. Back in Acre he often used to try: _Hello. I am the Lady Maria's son. 'Eh-low. Ma-ree-a es my muhter._

Acre. So long ago. A city lost and reclaimed and lost and reclaimed...a city like Al Masyaf?

Maria says, "You mustn't worry, though, Sef. Your father is very strong and very brave. And very stubborn. And he has Malik with him."

"Uncle Malik said he was gonna leave, after they got Masyaf back. That's what Darim told me."

Sef can't understand the expressions that muddle across his mother's face at the news about _Dai_ Malik, but he knows instantly the fear when he says his brother's name. Knows it because he feels it too, so keenly it could crush him. Unexpectedly, and with much alarm, he has to sniff back tears.

Maria rubs his back.

"I'm a bad assassin," he whispers. "Father wouldn't ever cry. Or you, or Uncle Malik, or Darim. But…but I can't help it…"

"Of course not. Sef, all men cry."

"What if Darim's not with Father and ' _Am_ Malik? What if we never find him and he's hurt and…why can't you go find them?" he begs, grabbing at the front of the leather wrap she wears over her tunic. She isn't dressed as an assassin at all, more like some question out of Europe. But he remembers from Acre that she dressed this way sometimes to feel comfortable—he remembers that she can switch from knight's armor to Brotherhood robes to ladies' _burqa_ at whim, merging the three, bridging the differences. His mother is all things, and all things well. She holds him in her strange garb and he, a child again, is comforted.

"Even if I could find them, I'd only be out of step and in the way," Maria tells her youngest. "Your father and Malik…they share a mind. If I could help them there...but I can help them here. By putting some order to this exile." She smiles. "They can organize assassins in Timbuktu but they can't organize a pantry. Like all the men I've known."

"But Darim…"

"Darim is with them," she says, firm. "And if not, they'll find him. Altair is very possessive, you know. He won't stand for his son to be taken away. And Malik, also—"

"His brother died, I know."

But she says sharply, "No, you don't know. And you never will."

"But assassins always hafta be ready for…"

"Assassins, maybe," says his mother. "But you aren't only assassins. You are also my sons. People here hold martyrdom as a birthright, I've never understood it. Your blood is mine as much as your father's, and sons of _my_ blood aren't sacrificed so easily. It will be hard, especially for Darim. He has to find his place, and my mulish husband has to let him find it. It scares Altair, though. To realize he could lose those he loves so deeply, and yet not have himself to blame."

"I don't under _stand_ ," Sef whines. "We should go find him."

"You think this is easy for me?" Maria snaps, suddenly heated. "You think I want to sit here with all the children and injured men, gnawing on my nails? I have armor, Sef! And a son I cannot save. I wake up these days with the priest's voice in my ears, 'You have tested us, O God, You have tried us like silver.' Do you know how long it's been since I was in a church?"

But here she pauses, and Sef watches her change back from angry knight to mother again. A chimera like the kinds mentioned in Father's old books.

"Sometimes, if we're truly brave, we're faced with the worst of all tests, and to pass it we can't charge in on a warhorse or assassinate some king. To pass it we must trust in others."

"I just don't get it, I just really don't."

"You don't have to yet. _Ce ne est pas_ _votre faute_." She smiles, faintly. "Robert told me that once. I'd tried to fight your father and lost."

"Why did you stop trying to fight him?"

"Oh," she sighs, "he was conceited and clever and I wanted to follow him only until I could punch his face in. But mostly it was his hands."

"…His hands? What about Father's hands? Like how he's missing a finger?"

"You don't need to worry about it, Sef. Just trust in your father, and in Malik, and in Darim. And in me. We are all where we are meant to be."

"Nothing is true, everything is permitted…like that?"

Maria stands up, pulling him with her. She brushes him off before herself, then claps her hands together with a brisk nod. "Exactly like that. Darim is fine, and we'll reclaim Masyaf. Now come and help me feed the horses, brave assassin. The mount I rode here bites."

Sef adjusts his cowl over his shoulders and squares his shoulders. "He won't bite me. But I don't care even if he does."

"Your father's image exactly," Maria says. "Wonderful." Something in her voice wavers, though, faltering at the end. Sef, distracted, doesn't quite notice. His father's image exactly! And his father is so brave.

_-i-_

Altair's legs go numb when Ali holds the knife to Darim's throat with unnecessary flourish. He almost expects his son to scoff at the threat, but no: Darim only swallows, eyes bulging with terror. It's understandable, perhaps. The boy is young.

Abbas, supposed leader, is a step off and a step behind, looking like a wax figure painted the appropriate colors, looking hardly here at all. And Malik is murmuring fast and low, hot desperate words of _wait_ and _calm_ and _careful Altair_. The assassins posture and there is a knife to the throat of Altair's eldest son.

Years ago, he would never have been in this position. Years ago he would call them on their threat, let them slit the throat of any Brother clumsy enough to be captured. Years ago, it would never be _now_.

Family ties were an abhorrence, once; he does remember being that Altair, even if it's an Altair long buried. To be hamstrung by design, to open up chinks in the armor and expect the enemy not to notice, seemed foolish, seemed worse than foolish. Seemed the worst, weakest thing of all.

The Son of None was wrong, of course. The worst thing of all was in Jerusalem, behind the bureau desk, spitting venom, cast adrift with grief ringing the eyes. The worst thing was taking Malik to pieces and then watching from a bitter distance as he struggled to reshape himself into something recognizable. The worst and weakest was to be alone—hated and discounted by the only man who looked at him and saw what was true—to be alone and so powerful, and yet so _useless_ , because in the end all his swordskill wasn't worth Malik's spit. Al Mualim's betrayal, the great humiliation of his demotion, the Apple of Eden's tricks: all bearable. But Altair alone was Altair without purpose. He'd thought himself free from human fragility, but Malik was his shield's soft spot all along.

So he learned. So he adapted. So he accompanied the Templar prisoner Maria, who knew much of her master's schemes, and noticed in her something of Malik's strength, and also something of his sarcastic wit. Altair's spats with Maria were enjoyably familiar. She was intelligent, quick to pick out the flaws in the Creed but willing, however grudgingly, to admit to flaws in her own philosophy. He found himself sharing more of his history than he'd meant to, but she wasn't smug to learn of his disgrace. If anything she was thoughtful. Altair thought at the time that Malik might appreciate his taking a thoughtful wife.

Soldier Maria, Templar-turned-Assassin Maria, Maria halfway knight and halfway lady…she was his second weakness, then, and the first he took on willingly. Malik was his blood, his spine, he could as much be a successful Grandmaster without Malik as the earth could warm without the sun. That flaw, if flaw it was, he hadn't asked for, only gripped with both hands when he saw how, without it, so much damage would be done. But Maria he chose. Maria he asked. Maria, his wife, he took to his bed.

(It wasn't quite the same, bedding men and bedding women. There was hardly any fight for dominance, not like with Malik. The passions were different. But it wasn't terrible and Maria was no shy, hesitant virgin. What he didn't know to offer her she took.)

Maria his wife was an assassin too. She and Malik could both protect themselves. Altair told himself it didn't count, then, it wasn't the same. He'd never allow himself to open up to anyone who didn't know how to swing a sword.

Then his wife became pregnant. She gave birth to his son. And when he held the newborn baby—he who had looked at Malik's fierce love for Kadar with equal parts bewilderment and scorn—his old self died away completely. What shreds of it had lingered were gone. Darim was so pink and small.

The greatest strength of all was to have a bloodline that endured generations. A life that lived on after death. Immortality. And there was no longer anything in Altair to whisper _weakness_ , to whisper _danger_. Darim was neither of these things, because Darim was his blood.

Darim—Altair left him safe back at the caves. But Darim is here, bound and bleeding, and Ali holds a knife to his throat. And Altair thinks he has lost, so totally, so without preamble. And softly, so softly, hissing with glee and malice in his ear…

"It wasn't like this when _I_ died. Altair, Altair, now what have you done?"

He was right when he was cruel. He was _right_.

"Well now," says Ali, "I think we should talk."

_-i-_

Abbas wonders.

He wonders at the true meaning of the Creed, the things permitted and the things that are true. He wonders at the true meaning of his own creed, God's creed, the holy words of the Prophet. He wonders at the naked horror on the faces of his enemies. He remembers when they were not enemies but grudging allies. He remembers a childhood of minor spats and training sessions. He wonders at that change.

He wonders why he cannot feel joy as Ali does, at the suffering of those he hates.

(But he has no strong feelings on the subject of Darim. This boy who tries to stand with a straight spine to mask his shaking is only that, a boy. There are many boys—Abbas has thought often of when he might have one or two of his own. Yes. A father, _inshallah_ , as even Altair has become. But what do assassins know of fathers?)

Ali is talking. Ali is usually talking. Ali has not once in weeks taken the time to pray.

"This can go quite smoothly," he says. "The Apple of Eden for your son. Oh, and your lives of course, and the sworn loyalty of your assassins, but that's nothing much."

"Nothing much," echoes Malik dryly. He at least has recovered himself well; Altair hardly looks to be listening.

"Well? My knife hand is twitching."

"Are you the Master here?" Malik demands. "We came to treat with Abbas, not you."

"I'm pretty sure you came to kill the both of us. What do you think?" This to Darim, with a press of the knife. Darim makes a feeble noise, half squeak and half whine, trying and failing to keep it down. Malik blanches to hear it but his voice doesn't waver.

"Is this your decision, then?" he asks Abbas. "You agree with it?"

Abbas licks lips gone dry as sand, and he swears he hears a familiar giggle: _It's nice_ someone _takes you seriously, even if it's only my brother._ "Don't play the moral wiseman with me. We're both assassins, you know what that means…"

"Oh, this is boring," Ali says with a sigh.

His hand jerks again—a wavering red line stripes its way across Darim's throat—the boy squeaks again and Malik holds up his arm—"Look," he says quickly, "we aren't fighting you, we'll throw down all our weapons,"—but then Altair apparently realizes where he is and what's in front of him. He snarls and lurches forward; Malik has to grab him by his forearm.

"Let go!" he rages.

"Stop it, Altair!"

"I'll slaughter—they—let go of my arm, goddamn you—"

"Altair, please, this is Solomon's Temple all over again. Patience, you must…"

"Patience?" the Son of None roars. "While they kill my son? Bright red, the both of them, bright red _cowards_." He tugs once, out of Malik's grip, then stands with nostrils flaring. If he does decide to charge one-armed Malik won't be able to stop him.

Ali says, "I won't pretend to understand what any of that means. Last chance, last offer. The Apple, please."

But now Darim finds his courage. "Don't listen to them. They won't dare do it. And, and assassins don't…death, it's not…"

"Stop talking," is his father's furious response, "when you don't know what you're talking _about_. Be still and I'll fix this."

"But I'm not afraid of these traitors, Father, I don't care what they do— _mmf_!" This as Ali pulls a cloth from some pocket and gags him. Darim fights against it but Ali is stronger and that hand with the knife never wavers. Altair is so infuriated he rocks in place but Malik's still watching, waiting for an opening.

Abbas says, "Now that it's happening I do not think I want to do this." But of course they aren't listening.

(They never listen. Only Allah listens, and lately even He's been busy elsewhere. This is wrong. But he should gloat in it! All those times when they were children and Altair laughed in his face!)

"The Apple!" he says, desperately. Desperate because there is no need to kill the boy if only Altair will see reason for once. "Or will you kill your son the way you killed Kadar? Everyone knows what kind of person you are."

Darim murmurs, undistinguishable, eyes bright. Altair looks down, at his robes, at his scarred hands. Looks back up at some fixed point beyond all of them. He could be possessed by his fury; his eyes ought to be glowing.

"Darim," he says softly. "What are you doing here?"

"Oh, you know how it is," Ali says, "Boys always want to impress their fathers. Even better when they have help."

"Help? What are you talking about?"

"Oh, he told us all about it, didn't he? Sang like a songbird after a beating or two. He was supposed to keep the escape route clear."

"Escape route? We never planned an escape route. What was the need?" Altair stiffens his back. "I think you had one of your spies in the caves bring him here, you scum of the earth. Too cowardly to bow your head for the assassination! Templar tactics, Abbas."

"We didn't!"

"Kidnapping children as pawns…how many missions were you sent on to kill people who did just that? What kind of person are _you_? Templar coward."

"But we didn't. God forbids it. I never would-!"

"Lying filth, I'll feed you your spine—"

"Malik helped him," Abbas hollers.

Altair sucks in a breath: "What?" He looks off-kilter, a predator frozen mid-leap. Darim hangs his head, miserable. Malik says something too low to hear. Abbas gasps for air, for calm.

"Darim told us himself. He snuck after you in the night. No doubt you would have seen him yourself very quickly but Malik found him first and told him to stay hidden. Told him he could help clear an exit. _Your_ Malik said this."

"Lies, not even clever ones…Malik is loyal." The wide whites of his eyes turn quickly to the _Dai._ "You are loyal," Altair all but pleads of him. It's the most pathetic thing Abbas has ever seen.

( _We see Your clever punishments, O Lord…)_

"Malik! These are more lies, of course, we do not betray each other. Not again."

But Malik looks so haggard. He does meet the Son of None's eyes. He does at least do that. "I told Darim he could come," he says. "He wanted to help. I let him."

A long, quiet pause. Ali looks amused by it all, happy to watch it play out. Abbas can only think of another time, another room, another, younger man screaming, _You should have been the one to die!_

Malik breaks the silence, touching Altair's shoulder and saying urgently, "We went on similar missions at his age. I tried to task him something safe. I didn't think he'd _listen_ if I told him no, Altair, he's your son, he's so much like you…"

But Altair brushes him off, tugs the hood of his cowl. "So this is your revenge," he says, to himself.

"No, it's not…it's not revenge. I don't want revenge from you."

Strange how little pleasure there is in watching this happen a second time, Abbas thinks. But of course it was destined to happen. And he's always around to watch it, as though Allah was reassuring him of all he'd begun to doubt. "Just give us the Apple," he says. "Just give in, for once."

Altair nods, all but hidden beneath the cowl and suddenly quite calm. "As you wish."

" _Yes_ , as we…really?"

"Ah, Altair," says Malik, sounding rather faint. "Wait, there's something else…"

"Shut up," says Altair. He turns a shoulder to his second, bracing against Abbas instead.

"If you think you can defeat me even with the Apple, go ahead and try," he says. "When we defended the bureaus from Templar raids as far away as Byzantium it was without any help from that thing." Altair seems lighter somehow. Damn the man, he's just been stabbed in the back and even now the fresh wounds run. Will he ever find reason not to gloat?

"Soon assassins from coast to coast will wear the hidden blade without losing a finger—can you track them down even with the artifact? I built an empire out of the Brotherhood! You sack Masyaf and…and even though half the Order despises me they, they accept me as well, they see all that I've done and…" Altair's realization comes with a grim, toothy smile, like a sign of warning. "You attacked the most personally disliked leader the Order's ever had and still you needed to hire every mercenary in the Levant to fill your ranks. Look at your army, Master Abbas. You kept the naïve novices and the bandits: where are your Master Assassins? _Onzor_! They chose me again."

Abbas stares at him. "I'll kill you, _ya khawal_ , I swear I will…"

"You won't," dismisses Altair with a wave of his hand. "But assassins sacrifice, Abbas. It's…I've learned that. Our instincts are only to kill, not to save." Without so much as a glance Malik's way: "We're drawn to kill each other. You've never learned otherwise. So all you can do is what you're doing now."

And he isn't looking at his son, either, when he says, "If Darim dies today it's on your hands. And the hands that killed my son will soon be broken off their body."

"Pretty speeches," Ali says. "Boring speeches, too. Keep the Apple in the bag, please, when you pass it over. We don't need any sudden surprises, do we?"

"Altair," Malik says again, his fingers stabbed deep into his palm. "Please. Something you should know…"

Altair pulls the bag containing the Apple off his sash. "I think Ali wants it more than you," he says to Abbas. "Far more. Ever wonder why? If we're still pretending you're in charge of anything."

"You…shut up, you dog. You whore."

"From when we were children I always thought you knew more words for _whore_ than anyone else." He cocks his head, taps a finger to his lip. Darim is so wide-eyed at this display of peacock preening (this flaring of feathers that is a pariah to the Creed and yet such a part of Altair it couldn't be Altair without it) that he's forgotten to be scared. "If you also wanted to suck me off you only had to ask."

"Be quiet!"

" _Toj koo' mas_. Say, 'Master, please,' before you do."

Abbas goes incoherent and red-faced. Before he can strike the son of a bitch down, though, Ali steps between them, nudging Darim along so that the knife stays at his throat. He reaches around and pulls the bag from Altair's fingers. So easy. Just so easy. Altair himself looks surprised at how little he flinches at its loss.

Malik is watching warily, not Altair but Ali and the grip he has on the pouch.

"You two," Ali clucks. "Like children." One-handedly, with a leg pressed against Darim to keep him still, he fumbles to open the bag. He doesn't give it to Abbas to open, though that would be much easier. It strikes Abbas how little he's done besides yell at Altair in all this.

"Now let Darim go," Malik demands.

Ali mumbles, concentrating, delight on his face, "Patience, patience…"

Dangerous color is creeping into Altair's face. "You _have_ the damn thing. Keep it and release Darim."

"First I must see it."

"There was a _deal_. Fight me with it, it won't matter. I killed Al Mualim when he had it. But let go of my son or I'll keep you alive for _days_."

"Al Mualim was a fool assassin. Actually you're all fool assassins…ah, ah, Malik, keep your fingers off your daggers please. I promise you I'll cut his throat before they land. Wait one moment and I'll…" The drawstring finally slackens. Ali, beaming so wide his face could crack, peers in. "Yes…I can't wait to feel it…"

Altair frowns and even distracted by angry embarrassment Abbas is confused enough to say, "It should cut straight through the bag, your fingers should tingle just being near it—"

"Oh, fuck," Malik mutters.

Ali, staring into the bag, has turned multiple interesting colors. The knife he keeps at Darim's throat suddenly wavers. Darim cries out behind the gag and another shallow cut begins to bleed.

"What are you doing?" Altair bellows, at the same time as Abbas, uneasy, says, "Ali, there was a deal…"

Only Malik says nothing. He presses his hand to his forehead, hunched like a man with a bad headache.

"What is this?" Ali asks—shouts, more like. His smile is gone, his cheery malice is gone. Instead there is an ire more than a little flecked with fear. "What trick is this? You'd play games with his _life_?"

"I'm not playing games. What are you talking about?"

For answer Ali turns the bag over in his hand. Its contents slip out, crack hard against the tile by his foot. Its contents: a brown rock, round, dirty, of decent size.

Abbas feels his heart stop beating. Malik curses, bites at his lip. Only Altair rises to meet Ali's temper: " _What sorcery is this_?"

"You thought I wouldn't check. You thought I wouldn't check and you'd get the brat back for free." Ali sneers.

Altair pats his sash, crazily. "The Apple of Eden is always there. I always carry it with me."

"I'm supposed to believe someone stole it from you? From _you_? The great Eagle of Masyaf? The man who can see through people and read their minds? The man who, what was it, has assassins _spread as far as fucking Byzantium_ can't keep a pickpocket out of his robes?" Ali spits at Altair's feet. "You thought to make a fool of me, assassin filth."

"There was no _need_ to trick you. I was going to kill you right off."

" _Then_ _where is the Apple of Eden_?"

Altair is speechless. But Malik says, "In the desert where I left it."

His comrade whirls on him. "You _what_?"

"I took it from you. I knew…no…I was afraid you wouldn't be able to keep from using it. I was afraid you would use it and bring Kadar back again." He shakes his head. "We have spent our entire lives as assassins killing without it. We never needed it."

"But I would have noticed. You aren't so great a spy that I wouldn't have noticed! When did you…?"

Malik raises an eyebrow. But Altair has never heard the word _shame_ before and is only enraged.

"Is there anything you _have_ told me? This was always your plan then, since Kadar…always since Kadar! You want to take from me what I took from you."

"No. I never did."

" _Never_?"

"Once, when I was angry, maybe. A different life, Altair! We were both different then. I took the Apple only to…"

"My son! You brought _Darim_ here."

"I didn't…"

But Ali has no more tolerance for their bickering. "The Apple, _now_ ," he says in a voice unlike any Abbas has ever heard him use. With his hair puffed past his ears and veins bulging in his neck he looks more demon than man. "Right this second!"

"We don't have it," says Malik hurriedly, "but I'll tell you where it is."

"What good will that do me? You think I'm that dumb? Yes, you'll tell me and I'll go to look and, oh! what a surprise! No Apple of Eden there. And no hostage for me, either, and probably a pair of assassins hidden in the trees!"

"I'll bring it to you."

"You'll vanish with it to some hidden pit in the desert."

"Not if you still have Darim as a hostage." Altair snarls at this, but Malik talks over him. "Keep him here with you. Unharmed," he warns at the boy's muffled protest. "He'll be a guarantee that we'll come back and a shield against us using the Piece of Eden. Kill him if we're gone longer than two hours."

Ali considers this, in better moods already, refreshing his grin. With his free hand he ruffles Darim's hair. "Interesting. Life means so little to you."

Abbas finds he is holding his breath, waiting for Altair to resist. But the half-breed looks half-mad with disgust and his impotency.

"I'm going to send some guards with you," Ali announces then, and Abbas winces.

"Fine," says Malik. "As many as you'd like."

"A dozen, I should think will be enough."

"No," Abbas cuts in, "actually Altair alone could easily…"

"Could what? Do you _still_ fear him, Grandmaster?"

"I'm telling you, twelve guards or a hundred won't be enough."

"Twelve guards, and if you both aren't back within two hours I will dangle the brat's body off the highest tower."

"Ali, wait."

"And it won't be a cut throat. I'll give the little bitch what his daddy likes before the end."

"That is _not_ the Creed-!"

"Grandmaster!" Ali sings out. "I do not _care_ , right this minute, about your goddamned _Creed_! Guards!" Masked mercenaries drip out of shadows and doorways, burly men overloaded with weapons. Not an assassin's sash to be seen. "Go with them," Ali says, "and find it. Keep it in the pouch. No one touches it but me. And be back on time or I swear you'll be burying a daughter, not a son."

Altair, still drawn up and puffed out like a peacock for all that he is useless, only flicks his hidden blade. Malik says something to Darim, something about being brave, but Ali interrupts with a reminder that their time is limited, their choices moreso. He talks to the two great assassins like they were wayward children: hadn't they better go?

They drop their weapons down and leave, walking through the main entranceway trailing guards like novices off on a practice run. And Abbas watches Darim squint against tears the minute his father is out of view.

_-i-_

The old man knows it is time when the assassins come up from Masyaf, four of them not even dressed the normal way, and start asking the villagers questions. Odd questions, not about loyalties or traitors—not this time—but about hidden things, lost things, old wives' tales and Sufi myths. About little slivers of gold and whispers late at night. They go through the brothel carefully, opening old trunks and digging through piles of slippery brocades, but ignore the women inside: not for harlots have they come but for something else entirely.

They ignore the old man's house, because it is such a mean little hut on the outskirts of nowhere, and because they don't recognize him as the troublemaker from last time. They see only a doddering fool lurking by a tree.

He's fortunate, all thanks to Allah, but it's a warning nevertheless. Will he be so fortunate the next time they come back? When they realize there's one house left to search? It doesn't sound as though they truly know what they're searching for, but their new Master is mad: everyone says it, especially around the old man, because they forget his sight is better and his hearing never left. The new Master is tormented by ghosts. And in his madness he neglects everything but the search for some strange toy…

The old man thinks of his son. _I want to show you something,_ the boy had written. _Only you. I don't know what I've found._

The power over life and death is what he found—but a corrupted power. The assassins are bringing back each other's dead now, tormenting souls surely longing for rest in Paradise. They are so foolish. The old man was so foolish.

Yes, it is a warning. Three days after the suspect assassins leave he wakes before dawn, takes out his little golden piece and wraps it tight in an old shirt, before tucking it under his robes, against his body. He swears he can feel its heat even through the fabric, even against flesh withered mostly numb by age.

 _They will all come back,_ a voice hisses, but he is expecting it this time.

"All things are possible with God's grace," he answers as he steps out into the predawn murk, letting the door to his house bang shut behind him.

 _They_ will _come back. We who came before…we who gave them their paltry lives…! You will listen to us! The slaves are meant for the Master. They will come back!_

"Maybe," says the old man. "But come back how? Like that boy they saw in Masyaf? That demon ripped from God? It's too high a price," he chides, thinking _oh my son oh my boy I wanted to save you it's been so long_. "Sitting here all these years with a hole in my heart. Can't blame you, I guess. It was my mistake. But it'll be an even bigger mistake to let them find you. They'll bring everyone back wrong and they won't even _care_."

The shard hisses at him, both entreaties and curses. But the old man has waited for half his life and now he knows the time has come to stop waiting for good. He takes the main road down to Al Masyaf with determination in his aching knees. There is one safe place left for the shard that he knows…

_-i-_

Altair and Malik walk together, as they have done all their lives, but this time it is different. Or is it? Different and yet—they go back and forth like betrayal is a child's game, first him and then you, proper children taking turns. Different and yet the only difference is this time the blame squats fat and naked on Malik's shoulders. Altair's eldest…oh, what has he done?

Safest to think of this only as another mission, one complicated with conditions the way Al Mualim used to tack on extra markers for success. Find this flag. Kill this man after that one. Clear this road. Busy work never explained, perhaps important, perhaps a waste of time. Perhaps only something to keep Master Assassins like Altair too busy to smell out Templar infiltration.

This is only another mission. Kill the guards, find the Artifact. Return undetected before the arbitrary time limit runs out. Save the captive. Malik remembers Samir almost as quickly as he remembers Kadar.

Killing the guards, anyway, proves so easy it hardly takes a thought. They are just steps away from the silent village, trudging along the path where it cuts high and narrow above the indifferent river, when Altair gives a sort of sigh. Hardly even a sigh—he could be clearing dust from his throat. Their guardians don't even notice. A second later Altair is on top of one like a cat on a mouse, and Malik slams all his weight against another and sends him screaming off the side of the cliff.

No one comes rushing out from Masyaf—no one who is around to hear wants to admit they heard—but just in case the assassins carry the force of the fight around the bend and out of sight. They can do that, Master Assassins; they can push and pull the violence around them, decide where like lava it will flow and steam, or pull it around their shoulders as a cloak. There were twelve mercenary guards to start and the assassins have left all their weapons with Ali, but the fight is over before it began.

When the dust clears Malik is sitting on top of a man whose neck bulges strangely, whose eyes stare unseeing at an unfamiliar angle. The _Dai's_ arm hurts quite a lot and he is more winded than he ought to be. Think of journeyman Malik who could climb to the tops of castle turrets for fun! He looks up at the sky he has jumped through.

Altair has the last of their surviving mercenaries caught in what could almost be an embrace, the stiff posture reminiscent of a court dance Malik once watched Maria try to teach her sons. But then the Grandmaster turns his partner around to face Malik, and pulls his hand out of the man's mouth. Malik sees the flash of silver dagger, stolen at some point in the last five minutes. It pops free in a little shower of blood and spit and two teeth. There's a dying gurgle from the mercenary.

Malik stands up, back popping, and strips his dead man of his sword. It's a cheaply made thing, not from any forge in Masyaf, but it's light-weight and that's important. It's harder to adjust to weapons not specially designed for Malik's own complications.

He goes to Altair, not sure what to say. They haven't spoken since leaving Ali gloating over Darim's smothered shivers.

"I hid the Apple near where we camped last night," he says. "If we hurry we can make it there and back in time. Then we can…" He catches himself. "Then I'll follow your lead."

"Will you," says Altair. Flat as anything. Flat as the ocean in the eye of the storm.

"I will. I hid it only because it seemed wisest, because I feared what it would do. What it would do to _you_. But if Darim…"

A jerked hand silences him, abruptly. Altair asks, "What was it like when I left you?"

Malik scrunches his brow. "When you…?"

"In Solomon's Temple. What was it like?"

He sucks in a wounded breath, all the while aware of time's many countless thousands of beetle feet clicking past. "Hot. Unbearable. We fought so many guards, they were in all the little passageways…"

But Altair is hardly listening. "Is that how…?" he says. "Is that when he died? Mid-fight?"

"No," says Malik. "He died in some dirty tunnel, trusting me. Trusting me to make it right."

"Trusting you? Well, of course. But did he also…"

Ah. Now Malik sees. "He said you would come back," he says, somehow. His own voice unrecognizable to either man. "He said, he kept saying…'Just wait, _Akhi,'_ he said, 'He'll come back, you'll see. Not for me, for you.' He kept saying that. He was so damn _sure_ of it and I don't know why, _why_ was he so sure? You were never even nice to him. But he waited…he died waiting…"

But he has to stop. Has to stop because Altair is gazing off down the road, very still, his whole back exposed for Malik's knives: and maybe that was how Malik would have wanted it ten years ago, or even ten days ago. But not now. This stockpiling hurts everyone around them worse than they hurt each other.

" _I_ waited, Altair," Malik says. "Ok? It was easy to blame you for failing Kadar, so I did. But it wasn't Kadar you betrayed, was it? I used to think so, but I was wrong. I was the one waiting. You should have…" He catches himself, just in time—but then thinks, _This is a man whose come I have swallowed, for fuck's sake,_ and says it anyway: "You should have come back for me. I was waiting for you. I needed you to come back."

"I tried."

"Maybe you tried."

"But I didn't come back," Altair whispers.

"No."

"And you led my son into the devil's nest. You saw he was like me and you knew what he would try to do."

"No, that's not… Yes. Yes, I knew what he would do."

"And now…?"

"Now tell me what you want of me, Grandmaster. Altair. _Tell me what to do_."

Altair says: "Help me."

"Yes."

"After this you can leave and we never have to speak again. We can forget, we can try to forget. But now Darim is waiting."

 _Yes,_ thinks Malik, _Darim is waiting. He's lost and in pain but he's not afraid. 'He's coming back,' he tells Ali. 'My father will come back for me. You'll see.'_ And there are wolves at every road-bend, and the flocks are huddled close.

"Tell me what you need me to do," he says again. Not questioning, not doubting, not wielding sarcasm like a whip. He is an assassin and his Master's will is upmost. It is true, it is permitted.

"You will use the Apple," Altair says.

"I will?"

"Ali expects it from me. He'll use Darim as shield, as you said. But he hardly even looked at you back there. He's foolish, he doesn't understand. You'll take him by surprise, maybe for only a minute. But a minute is all that I'll need."

"You want me to use the Apple of Eden." Malik's missing arm pains him, on cue. He pictures the rot of it, and the joy, the white-fog voice. He pictures the sheer, tremendous, incandescent hurt of it: hurt like oil on top of water, hurt that had layers of color at the surface and sticky dead sludge at the bottom.

He was so afraid then. Afraid to touch it, afraid to let go. If he could throw it or himself into the deepest sea to escape it, he would do so instantly.

But Altair has given him this order.

"Yes, Master Altair," says Malik, not even bothering to try for a smile.


	15. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HI GUYS WHAT’S GOIN’ ON
> 
> I don’t even know if this fandom still exists anymore, y’all might have died of old age, it’s been 84 years etc etc. But, look, I kept thinking people would forget about this story and you guys would not forget – the messages, the reviews – so in the end I couldn’t forget either. Thanks. It was actually a really cool thing to see.
> 
> Uh. But it HAS been 4+ years so I honestly have forgotten a lot of my Master Plan beyond what was written down, and I simply don’t have the time to dedicate to fanfic of this length anymore. If details don’t quite mesh – I hope they do! – or if the writing’s a little harried – I hope it’s not too obvious! – then I can only apologize and ask for your understanding. I haven’t even played the last three or four AC games, it’s so sad…I will always, always love these characters, though. And as I get ready to finish this fic (yes, finish! And no, it won’t take four years for the next update!) and get back to editing my original novel I can see how much better as a writer I grew over the course of writing in this fandom – from way back when and Battle of Eagles to now.
> 
> Also I never realized, never thought about it, never knew what we had, but the AC fandom is so chill! and so easy to browse in! and did I mention it’s chill! my latest Thing has been Voltron hahaha can you tell please kill me. 
> 
> Next update soon! Thank you so, so much for your patience and your reviews!

**_Those We Die For_ **

 

Darim is the first to see them.

He has been bound to a stone pillar, first by a man in assassin’s clothes whose hands trembled as he pulled the ropes, who leaned to whisper in Darim’s ear that it has all gone wrong, this coup, Abbas a mere figurehead and Ali either scheming or insane, it’s not how it should have gone for these assassins whose complaints were on poor assignments and overlooked titles. The assassin pretends to loop a knot around Darim’s wrist, Darim can still slip his whole hand free afterwards, and the man says in a hush that the few assassins left among Ali’s mottled forces want to fight for Grandmaster Altair Ibn La’Ahad again, they do, and he will help Darim get free if only the boy will put in a forgiving word with his father—

But the man was clumsy in more than just knot-tying; no sooner has he straightened up than one of Ali’s mercenary thugs in brown and green comes ‘round the corner and kills him, right there, right then. Darim is left tied so tightly his fingers begin to tingle and the rope bites into the flesh above his knees.

The pillar he’s been tied to faces the front of the fortress, not the garden, and so what lies before his burning, tired eyes is the spread of the fortress and all of Masyaf: huddled, hampered Masyaf, holding her breath. He can’t see a single villager; the whole town looks deserted. There aren’t any novices in the training ring or any guards along the watchtowers. What Brotherhood does Ali think he’s ruling? Darim wonders, but knows the answer is Ali doesn’t care about the Brotherhood at all.

He wilts in the heat, his mouth painfully dry behind the gag, held up by the ropes and his own pride, what’s left of it. To be captured in this way, in front of his _father_ , to ruin the great plan…

Darim thinks of how little his ruler father notices him, or seems to notice him, and he thinks of the expression on his father’s face just a few hours ago. And he thinks of the argument that has been going on in front of him ever since, drifting done for a while only to spark up again minutes or a half-hour later, between Abbas (useless wretch he turned out to be, Darim thinks petulantly, can’t even keep his own rebellion together) and Ali. Abbas is convinced that either Altair will simply vanish with the Apple or he will return and blast them all to bits, captured son be damned. Abbas is convinced there is nothing Altair wouldn’t happily sacrifice for his own victory.

Ali is ignoring him, mostly, which means Abbas is mostly arguing with himself, which is typical. Darim has been told many times by Uncle Malik not to mock his elders, but he’s pretty sure Abbas doesn’t count.

He’s pretty sure he’s going to be rescued today, but only pretty sure. Hope mixes with the oil fumes of fear to form a nauseous mixture in his belly. Darim’s pretty sure his father will never forgive him, but only pretty sure, and he isn’t at all sure which would be worse.

Ali is in front of him, leaning over one of the low walls that line this small stone balcony wrapped around a lesser turret just to the side of the master’s great window. He has his eyes fixed on the village’s main path.

“…and with all the guards dead – and all the guards _will_ be dead, I’m telling you – there’s nothing stopping him from doing whatever he wants. I don’t understand this, Ali, I don’t understand why you’ve let him go off.”

“You’ve seen him with the Apple yourself,” Ali says without so much as a blink. “He can’t manage it as he used to. He’ll come back with it weak and be weakened further trying to use it, and then we’ll take it. Assuming you can at least manage _that_ , O great assassin.”

“I don’t trust it,” Abbas mutters. “Holding that thing…you could feel the demons in it, controlling it, controlling you…Ali, I say we kill Altair and throw that thing out with the body. It can’t be trusted in the Brotherhood. It can’t—”

“Oh, it won’t be staying in the _Brotherhood_ ,” Ali says, almost pleasant. “My Order’s waited long enough for me to make some sense out of your rabble. Don’t worry about that.”

“What? What are you saying?”

“You can stay here and play king in the dirt with your inbred fellows, if you wish,” Ali says. “You can throw yourself off the cliff with Altair’s corpse if you wish. It hardly matters to my Order what someone as small and insignificant as Abbas, puppet king of Masyaf, decides to do.”

“Puppet-! Ali, you watch yourself! Friend or no, you watch—”

“Altair creates more fear and respect in this place from his desert hidey-hole than you could in a lifetime. Go back to cowering by your idols, Abbas, and leave the real king-work to real men.”

“Traitor,” Abbas hisses, going for a dagger, “ _Templar_ , I should have known…”

“You should have,” agrees Ali, still pleasant. “That Raed fellow tried to tell you. He must have dug up my Knights Templar robes in that cave they found him in. _I_ must have misjudged the reach of the floods. Well, no matter. You won’t do anything about it now.”

“I won’t?! I’ll cut you down right now, Templar – cursed enemy—” But he doesn’t _do_ anything with that dagger, just stands there, looking helpless and lost. And Ali glances at him to confirm this and smiles.

“Now, now,” he says, “we’re still friends, aren’t we? What do you care what my people do in lands far away from here? The Crusades are _over_ , Grandmaster, and once we have the Apple we won’t be concerned any longer with what you desert rats are up to. Stay here, run your Order, fight the Mongols, be a king to your people. It’s everything you’ve ever wanted, hmm?”

“And let you Templars destroy us?”

“I just told you, we won’t have anything to do with you from here on out. Not for now, at least. And later…well, when you’re dead of a rich old age, why concern yourself with _later_? Anything could happen – God Himself could come down and scatter the earth. Isn’t that right, Grandmaster? So rule your little Order and we’ll rule ours, and in your life at least you’ll have peace. And Altair rotting on a pike. Why then should we quarrel?”

Abbas only stares at him. “You lied,” he says. “You’ve lied to me all along.”

“Apple lies,” says Ali. “Truly it’ll be better off in my heathen hands, wouldn’t you say?”

“Heathen hands…”         

“Mnph,” Darim says, with disgust. The ersatz-Grandmaster looks at him, with something like hate and humiliation but also dignity crossing the crags of his worn face. His beard has gone almost totally white. It doesn’t make him look godly, as Darim has been told the old Grandmaster, Al Mualim, used to look. It just makes him look old.

The hate and pride war with each other on Abbas’s features, and then something like real life takes hold and he turns toward Ali, who’s gone back to staring out at the village, and the dagger is still in his hand and with real assassin’s grace he steps forward—

“Mph!” Darim cries, looking past them both. He can’t help himself; his heart leaps and his stomach dives.

“There,” says Ali with satisfaction, looking also. Abbas freezes midstep. Darim squints to see it clearer. There, in the path, by the mud where the flags should be: His father.

_-i-_

Sef wakes up from a restless nap, an uneasy something draped across his shoulders that he can’t describe. So he stands, brushes off the sand, leaves the little cave room he’s been stashed in and goes to find his mother. Outside the courtyard space is crammed with new faces: assassins from Damascus have made it here after all. “We are loyal to your father,” says one when he sees Sef. “Tell us what you would have us do.”

Sef is too young to tell anyone anything; he knows this now like he knows his reflection. “My mother will say,” he announces, and the assassin nods.

But when Sef finds his mother she is standing in the mouth of a hastily erected storage shed, one grimy hand on her hip, hair uncovered and limp with sand, eyes fixed on some uncertain point. Sef remembers when nothing at all was worse than seeing the looks his mother got when she went around bare-headed. Now what does it matter, a dirty look? After everything? Can a dirty look take them back to Masyaf, restore to them his father and brother? No wonder his mother never cared. Sef feels a little less young just then.

“More assassins,” he tells her. “Just in from Damascus. There are so many assassins here now, Mother.”

She looks at him. Opens her mouth. Shuts it again. Turns back to the horizon line. And her hand finds the hilt of the long sword strapped to her waist and flexes, open and closed.

_-i-_

His father’s features can’t be seen clearly from this far away, but there’s no mistaking his robes of office or the cowl pulled over his eyes. Or his stance, the disinterested arrogance of it. All things are as a speck of dust to the man who stands this way – this man may be kind or cruel as he wishes it and none shall have the strength to move him. This man is a killer. This man is a master.

“No guards,” Abbas says, with his own petulance. “And where’s Malik?”

“Must have fallen,” Ali says with a wave of a hand. “We did send twelve very well-armed men with them. Never mind him, Abbas. See, he isn’t using the Apple. He knows that if he tried it we’d kill his son before it ever reached this far. Go, get the Piece of Eden.”

“And why don’t you get it if you’re so determined to take it, Templar?”

“Don’t argue with me now!”

“You’ve never truly fought anyone. You hid behind me the whole time in the battle for Masyaf and – and the only one you’ve killed yourself was half dead and spitting blood! Coward!”

“Stubborn mule,” Ali screams, “can’t any of you assassins be made to see sense!”

“There’s no sense in giving up the high ground,” says Abbas, who for all his blindness _has_ been well-trained. “Have him come up here.”

“Fine! Get me a messenger!”

“It’s all your men up here, so send one…”

Darim watches their argument carry them back along the balcony in search of a mercenary. And then, suddenly, his tongue isn’t uselessly pushing at cloth but at his lips and the gag is sodden at his feet. His heart leaps – Malik after all, snuck around from behind and over the whole fortress! No one else could ever manage it! “Do my hands, hurry,” he whispers, and in answer his father says, “Hush.”

Another jolt of his heart. Twisting his neck to see around the pillar he sees Malik’s robes but his father’s face.

“But aren’t you – down there—”

“Don’t waste time with silly questions,” his father says, “he can’t manage it for long.”

“What-?” A shout from below: Darim turns back to see shocking gold bursts, hideous unformed things, swirling out from the pathway, bursting against the nearest buildings in great noisy gusts of wood and stone as the walls and roofs give way, and with that noise comes the horrid chatter of a million insects or a million footsteps tripping on gravel.

“Is that Uncle Malik?” Darim breathes. Then the last of the rope around his arms and waist falls loose and he staggers forward, wincing with the blood flow through numb limbs. His father catches him around the shoulders, more gentle than Darim can ever remember him being.

“Careful,” he says. “We’re going down, come on.”

“Wait,  they left your weapons all over here. What about Ali and Abbas? Father, Ali is a _Templar_ , he said it himself just now!”

“Malik can’t use the Apple much longer,” says his father. “It hurts him far more than it does me – he always was the wiser of us.”

Screaming from down below. They both turn to watch as golden swarms blanket what up until a moment ago had been a living human mercenary. Now what little can be seen behind the swarm is definitely none of those things.

Darim shivers. The eagerness of it as it consumes, and the _sounds_ …

“It’s horrible,” he says. His father nods.

“It was made by – by gods, I suppose, or something similar,” says the man he’s always known as a staunch atheist. “Whatever they are, they might have meant to help, but they don’t realize what they ask of us. We aren’t their workers. We’re our own.”

More screams. The swarms are winding between the buildings now, dragging out men with swords and men with knives, like something biblical. Another bit of this and they’ll have taken back Masyaf with one flick of a wrist. But then the golden swarms blink – an exact blink, the whole seething mass gone and back again in a flicker – and the figure dressed in his father’s robes staggers backwards, back hitting the wooden fence that blocks off the edge of the hill.

“Hurry,” says his father, giving him a little shove, not asking if his arms and legs feel better, and Darim feels the sting of that but maybe he understands it, too. Don’t compromise the Brotherhood – don’t delay while the ones you love die.

_-i-_

Abbas and Ali are nearby, somewhere – the chatter and rush of voices in his ears tell him as much – but Malik can hardly spare them a thought. Even with his hand wrapped in yards upon yards of fabric (stolen from a herd of novices rounded up, roundly scolded, stripped of weapons and outer layers and sent to find safety outside Masyaf) he can feel the terrible pressure of the weapon at work in his palm. It’s killing all these mercenaries because it wants to show him all it can do, but also it wants to be dropped so it can go back into the hands of the Grandmaster, and the vengeance mixed with joy is streaking up his entire arm.

Another minute, he thinks. He can spare Altair another minute. Time enough to get Darim away from here – it has to be.

Black outlines of people come at him in the haze and he swings his arm at them, trusting the Apple to take care of it because it’s the only weapon he can use right now. Another minute, another minute…

But the Apple can’t, or doesn’t, burn away solid steel. The knife that cuts through finds its mark in Malik’s good shoulder. He hollers, out of surprise more than anything, and lets the Piece of Eden drop. It hits the ground hard at his feet and faintly hums. Immediately the figures are gone.

And immediately Abbas is there. Malik twists out of the way of his sword at the absolute last second, kicks him back through sheer adrenalin and scoops the Apple up while he can. Altair had better be gone by now: time’s up, Malik’ll have to run, but where is Ali in all this, with one the other is always close. Malik kicks at Abbas again for the breathing room and turns to jump off the broken fence and down the hill but Abbas lunges with his free hand, grazes his hand against the Apple for all of one second—

Then, sitting on a loose bit of fence with broke-joint grace: Kadar. Smiling at him. Malik skids to a stop, limbs locking up, and Abbas hits him full across the back with his sword.

The pain is instant and astounding. He falls half on his side in an ungainly crumple, on top of the Apple – damned thing gets its protection to the last. Through the shock of it he tries to move his shoulders but his whole back is on fire, carved like roasted meat. He doesn’t think his spine’s been severed but it might as well have been, the agony its own paralyzing vice. All the extra useless fabric now tangled around him, catching him up, a shroud… Kadar strolls over and peers down; Malik squints up at his shape, backlit by the sun, tasting his own blood from where he bit through his tongue as he fell.

“Hello,” his brother whispers. Malik tries to respond and can only groan.

“Kill him and take it.” Ali, somewhere near.

Abbas, somewhere even nearer: “No. No, I won’t touch that thing again. It doesn’t want me!”

“You superstitious idiot, it’s not a person, it’s a _tool_.” Ali barks out a furious laugh. “A _weapon_. Or do you really believe the myths you sell the Masyaf peasants? Mystical apples and Altair raising the dead – _men_ created it, wise men far beyond our own, from a better world, and with it we can bring that world _back_ , back to the truth and the light…you stupid rat! Bring it here or I’ll gut you!”

“I can feel it,” Abbas says. “Even without touching it I can feel how it – they – hates. And learns! Without even my hand on it now it creates that monster…” Kadar giggles. Abbas shouts, “I won’t! I’m an assassin! I fear God! Throw it away, Ali, please, you must throw it away.”

“Oh, I _must_ ,” Ali snarls, and there’s the crunch of footsteps and sounds of struggle and Malik is still fighting through cloth and pain and misery to see Kadar’s face come clear. Then Kadar steps back and Ali comes forward and looks down at Malik with twisted, scabbed lips. Malik tries to grab a knife, a dagger, a sharp bit of rock, but his shoulder doesn’t want to move, the whole side of him dull buzzy chills up and down the bones. Ali has no such trouble with his sword, the tip of which he lets drop to Malik’s exposed throat. “Don’t bother,” he spits. “You always knew you’d die for it.”

(Once upon a time he lay with his back to the ground of the training ring and Altair’s dull blade to his throat and they looked at each other, boys still, stupid but they thought they knew so much and some things, it seems, they did.)

Malik has the strength to smile. “Die for him,” he corrects Ali, who sneers and raises the blade for the strike. Malik could close his eyes but doesn’t bother.

And then a shadow, reaching claws, a hawk mid-catch and Ali the rabbit between its talons, or maybe – an eagle –

Altair brings Ali down with the force of his Leap of Faith, Ali who rolls and lurches and squeals just like a rabbit and somehow gets to his feet with one hand clamped to his neck, squirting blood in long hot stripes. Trips over his own feet trying to run, but Altair doesn’t run after him, stopping instead to haul Malik up by his arm. Malik’s body _does not want to do that_ and screams its opinion very loud indeed but when has Altair ever let him fall back into mere human weakness? Get up! he says, over and over, every day of their lives. Come with me! you _won’t_ fall behind!

He staggers up, blood falling freely down his back, blood mixed with dirt in his mouth and on his hand. Not paralyzed, then; only wishing he were so the pain would ease. The courtyard and the houses facing onto it are all in shambles. Kadar is back by the fence, head cocked. Abbas is bruised and frozen across the other side, and on him Altair sets his sights: he waits only long enough to snag Malik’s eye with his own, once, and then he’s off again and Abbas starts to run but thinks better of it and meets him in the middle with a clash of steel on steel.

 _What an idiot…_ Malik thinks, muddled, dazed. _He was supposed to get Darim out so that we could regroup…why on earth did he come back…_

But fighting from above them, on one of the village’s higher paths, alerts him to Altair’s eldest, sword in hand, handling a handful of mercenaries (no assassins to be seen anywhere for miles) who must have been far enough away to survive the Apple’s reach. His face is a focused mimic of his father, as are his steps, as are his swings. _Huh,_ thinks Malik. _I suppose…he was ready to train with a real sword after all._

He turns around, slanted and cramped with pain. Kadar, what looks like Kadar, broken and fused, is still watching him.

“Did you know the Apple can drive people mad?” he, it, asks. “Even when they aren’t using it? Have you ever heard of the bleed-through effect? I guess not yet, huh.” Smiling, it raises one clawed hand to its warped gash of a mouth and licks a finger with a tongue that should be forked and isn’t. “Well, I’m gonna stay. I’m gonna stay with you forever.”

“No,” says Malik. “You aren’t.”

“But it’s what you dreamed of! All this time! Your dearest brother back again.”

Malik says, “My dearest brother died years ago. If he came back he’d be a man, like me. You’re a child. Younger than he was when he died, even. You’re how I think of him. That’s how I know you aren’t real.”

“You should come with me. You always wanted your family back.”

“Sorry. My son is waiting for me at home.”

“Home, home! What home? And who’s gonna make me go, huh? Your darling Altair is busy. Oh, come this way, _Akhi_ , I’ll be with you for _ever_ more. You’ll hurt like I hurt, like how brothers should share. What else can you do?”

“Kill you,” says Malik, and finds his sword.


	16. Chapter 13

**_The Mission_ **

 

The lurch and drag of it: the proof Malik needs. As long as he focuses on the limbs like beams jutting from rubble and the claws like a wild beast’s, he can fight it. As long as he doesn’t look at its face.

The creature toys with him awhile, feinting and darting with mad giggles, pretending to flinch away from swings as messy as any novice’s. Malik’s fighting with his dagger – he doesn’t have the strength for the broadsword now, what with his back flayed raw – and every muscle he moves he pays for in waves of acid pain. If this was a real fight he wouldn’t have a hope in any hell.

 But this isn’t a real fight.

Oh, it’s _happening_ , and it’s deadly serious. Malik versus the monster wearing his brother’s face, nothing could ever be more serious than that, and he cuts his blade down sharply to bat away the creeping claws when it grabs for him knowing that one will live and one will die and he’s damned if he’ll be the one to fall. Though perhaps he is damned either way.

But the thing he’s fighting ultimately isn’t _real_ , regardless of its sneering laughs or wretched pleas or the blood – its own and Malik’s – caught under its long nails and smeared across its filthy assassins’ robes. It’s an Apple thing, an illusion, even if now the illusion somehow wears real flesh and carries real bones. Only the truth is blessed, Malik thinks, and manages to gouge out a hunk of skin along its pocked, pitted arm. And because that is true, because so little of this _is_ true, because of that he thinks that even battered as he is he may yet win.

Even wretched as Malik is he thinks that this time he can save his brother.

“Hurts, _Akhi,”_ the thing whines, long tongue lapping at its wounded arm, and Malik grimly nods.

He steps to the side and trips over the back of his hemline with a curse; Altair’s assassin’s clothing isn’t much different from his own with the black robe left behind but they’re built different, Altair taller and Malik more muscular, so it doesn’t fit quite right. Not at all how it was supposed to go, he was only to hold the orb long enough for Altair to get Darim away and then they would regroup, but he of all people can’t complain about changing plans. He and Altair share a mind along with the clothes, so it seems, and so if one changes course the other will adapt as instinct.

Altair. Malik glances when he can but neither Altair nor Abbas is visible. He wonders how that fight is going. Then the creature snaps at his knuckles, a very fortunate near miss, and he forces himself to pay attention – to focus on the creature, hard as it is.

He waits for it to swipe forward again and cuts it across the arm. The blood spurts out and then, horrifically, solidifies into red-tinged spongy flesh like an aborted extra appendage sprouted out from the base of the arm. The beast _can_ be hurt – it yowls at the strike – but even its pain shapes itself into a weapon. How to kill the solid heart of dream stuff?

Malik goes on the offensive this time and cuts it again, shallow wounds to test a theory. This time the wounds turn gelatinous and scab over with something like water, the color of blood and the color of its skin mixing into an ugly brown-purple. It reaches a deformed arm towards him, and he drags himself to the side, sluggish. The reaching limb spreads pale human fingers, though the rest of it looks less human every second. It stretches bonelessly, swipes, he dodges, and as it misses the creature snaps its jaw with impatience and the fingers curl back into eagle’s claws, black and diseased and peeling scales.

It moves slow too with all this shape-shifting. So Malik despite his pain moves faster now and sinks his dagger into what should have been an elbow with a meaty thunk. The creature tugs its arm backwards in that joint-defying way, threatening to take the dagger along with it, so he kicks at it, pushes it back, frees his weapon from the mass of that sick arm and pulls back himself, panting.

He knows this is a sick man’s fight – he can’t even straighten up fully, blood down his spine, and the Apple’s fantasia is warping itself mad. _A nightmare,_ Malik thinks, _the ridiculous kind you laugh at when you wake._

And he knows…hacking at its limbs, kicking at its trunk, will do nothing but drive it to further flights of monstrous, transformative fancy while he wears himself out. The longer this takes the more likely he loses – falls to the ground to be devoured by a monster with his brother’s face. Devoured by his and Altair’s own delusions. And where is Altair, anyway, and Darim? They need his help, no doubt, while he stalls here because he can’t bring himself to do what must be done.

What assassin is a coward? If it hurts him to plunge the knife then let it hurt and be a lesson.

Finally Malik looks the creature in its blue and blown-pupil eyes.

It reaches more limbs to trap him and with his dagger held sideways he severs them in wet bunches. He sees an opening and scratches its face – and it _wails_ at him like an affronted child. Theory confirmed.

The transformations come faster now: he ducks between a forest of hands and talons, bone hooks and fanged mouths in palms. He tries to spin it around to the back, to where if it had been human he would have stabbed it under the ribs. The wounded body seems to melt into itself, losing its human symmetry, one side dragging down the other like some demonic version of a stillbirth an assassin’s wife had once in Jerusalem, two separate baby selves attached at the hip by webs of flesh. It killed the mother too, that birth.

But all this parrying is just Malik stalling again. Then the creature hooks at his legs with sudden curved tusks and he almost falls. And he is _not_ sure he’ll be able to get back up again. Heart pounding he stabs it wherever he can reach it, hitting fat and useless organs, just to drive it back, drive it _away_ …

It hardly even looks like his brother any more, but those eyes – _I can’t,_ he thinks, _I can’t, I can’t…_

Then the creature says, “Malik.” It can’t talk much anymore, the shape of its mouth sacrificed to some confused attempt at a snout. The Apple hardly knows what to do with this fantasy, what to do when Malik keeps fighting back.

“Malik,” it mumbles. “Please, please.”

_It hurts._

“I know,” he says. “I’m taking too long, I’m sorry…it’s hard…”

“Malik,” it says again. “Brother.”

And whether that is his brother, the spirit pulled from the void by the Apple and embedded somewhere inside all that damp, putrescent flesh, Malik might never know. Whether there could have been a way to save it, bring it back to stability and sanity. Whether Kadar does hate him for Solomon’s Temple. Whether he asked for this. Whether this is all his fault. A dream, a nightmare, and there must always be an awakening…

“ _Akhi_ , please. Hurts.”

_I can’t,_ but assassins always can.

So Malik smiles as he stabs it, dagger up to the hilt in the throat, aimed upwards into the mouth, the face, the core. He cuts his brother’s throat and stabs his face, calling the Apple’s bluff, and he smiles at he does it, with kindness and reassurance, because this is the last thing Kadar will ever see, and he doesn’t want his little brother to be afraid.

Let him see the older brother who loves him, letting him go.

Maybe the creature smiles back at him, for half a breath.

Then it crumbles to powder and less than powder, and then it’s gone and only scuffmarks in the dirt show that it ever was. The bright blue eyes are gone. The eager smile is gone. His brother is gone. But his brother has been gone for years.

Malik pats his face and finds it dry, mostly. He wedges a stained boot into the ruins of the fence and looks out over Masyaf. He thinks…

But there are shouts then, closer to the fortress. And so he must move on.

He picks up the artifact, cold and silent now, and drops it back into its pouch. Then he pushes himself up the sloping path, trying to focus on the looming fortress with its many crannies for hiding mercenaries and not the wounded beat of his pulse in his ears. As he rounds past the old cliff-side storage building where once he and Altair stared each other down, he sees Darim kick a man through its wooden door. He goes over, peers into the dust and sees there’s no reason to toss a follow-up knife, then turns to Altair’s eldest, who’s a little bedraggled and torn up and still has rope burns around his wrists, but who overall looks ok.

“First kill, mm?” Malik asks, and Darim shrugs, eyes sliding away. No ceremony then, for father or son, and no grappling with what it means until later, in the dark. Well, there’s no changing it now.

“Darim, where’s your father?”

“He went after Abbas. Back towards the fortress.”

“Come on then. After all that’s happened today I don’t trust him alone in there.”

“You mean – you want me to come? Not to stay behind?”

“Of course. I must guard the Grandmaster’s back, so I’ll need someone to guard my own. What’s left of it,” he grumbles. Darim takes a step back to grasp the whole of him and his eyes widen.

“Uncle, you’re – you can’t fight like this!”

“Maybe not, there’s no point in assuming. My place is with Altair.”

“And…and the creature?”

“Gone. Dead. If it ever lived at all.”

“You killed it? But it looked just like your—”

“There’s no time to talk, Darim, let’s go. Before our mercenary friends regroup.”

“Yes…to Father…”

“Darim.” Malik puts his hand on the boy’s shoulder, firms his grip. Darim swallows but the _Dai_ – who knows from coaxing nervous novices – doesn’t loosen his hold until Darim looks at him. “This is a mission,” he says. “It could end in their deaths, or yours. It could bring you glory or suffering. You are an assassin, you know the Creed: everything is permitted, even fear. But nothing is true, and no failure can be assumed. You have only your own hands, Darim, and yet you have the strength of all your Brothers.”

Darim says, “I understand,” and he looks as though he does. Malik nods.

“To your father, then. Come on!”

_-i-_

Once he was a boy, and he had not yet climbed all the castle.

It drove Altair mad as a child, to know that there were corridors not yet tramped upon, towers not yet scaled, wings where he was not welcome. At six or ten or fifteen Altair desired – demanded – to know everything, to go everywhere. He never bothered to admit to himself that there were things beyond him or places he didn’t yet deserve to see; the rest of the Order looked at his strange skin and told him that enough already.

Now his feet slip across ancient stone and he cuts his blade into cracked mosaic tile and splashes blood across the walls. Now there is truly no mystery of the Brotherhood he does not know, save one: the mystery of Malik, and what he means, and why he stays. Now Altair is the Grandmaster, he is routing a coup d’état, he is an almost inhumanly skilled fighter and it isn’t hubris to say that, it’s the truth.

But still, as he chases Abbas across the courtyard where novices train and newcomers gawk, as their fight propels them into the abandoned great hall where usually scholars bustle and the Master plots, now as Altair fights at the peak of his strength ultimately, at the heart of him, he just feels small.

Small in the face of Malik, who has always had such a grip on his heart and mind – even without realizing it! Altair has loved others, he loves his wife and children and the sword-swing justice of his righteous Order, but with Malik it is almost more fear than love, it has almost gone through love and out the other side into incomprehensible terror and need. Malik could crush him with one finger yet never has, though he’s come close.

(Close in the face of Kadar’s death and wretched rebirth. Close in the betrayal of humoring Darim. Close in the face of more than two years of pure Jerusalem hatred stippled with grief like fat. Closest of all in the desert, alone, riding back to Masyaf without the Apple and without the companions and refusing to believe – not _daring_ to believe, not brave enough at all – that his last sight of Malik would be of them amid some stupid fight. Hate exists, grief exists, they can be reckoned with and pleaded with and sacrificed for but death?)

And maybe it is that fear that moves him now, as he catches Abbas and they parry blows and then Abbas runs for more distance and Altair follows him and the whole village is nothing more than stage setting, though he’s only seen one play in his life and was restless throughout, much to Malik’s displeasure. Maybe it is the memory of all the times he’s failed his beloved – well, _whatever_ you’d call it – that spurs him on now. But it isn’t a distraction. He can’t remember a time when he didn’t fight with one thought at all times on where Malik is.

Abbas is panting at the top of the stairs.

Altair takes them three at a time and swings low, at the man’s legs; Abbas is a good grappler but he (clearly) struggles with planning ahead. Now the only place for him to go is out into the back garden, site of so many clashes before this. _I’ll cut you down here as I cut down Al Mualim,_ Altair thinks. _This is my place. Now I know it._ Ghosts upon ghosts upon ghosts.

But Abbas gets a clever swipe or two in as Altair comes full into the light, keeping the sun behind him and using the slippery stone to keep Altair off balance. The Son of None allows a few superficial marks and bruises to his arms and chest while he looks for a way to reclaim the high ground.

“Bastard,” Abbas is groaning, “Bastard, you’ve ruined it again. Why you couldn’t you just—”

“You don’t understand,” Altair answers, aiming for a jab with the hidden blade, “you never have.”

“I do!” he shrieks and _slams_ his elbow up, smashing it right into Altair’s face. He has to fumble a step back, one hand on his sword hilt and one hand clamped to his nose, to the spray of fresh blood.

Abbas says, “I know your tricks, Altair!”

Altair grits his bloodstained teeth, drops his heavy broadsword and swings out his lighter blade. He decides the best way is to tire the other man out, keep him dancing, see whose stamina is stronger in their unexpected middle age. He strikes, misses, feints, strikes...

_We are here we are here ancestor of the prophet use us use us use us use_

No. He kicks Abbas in the ankle and jerks back; this time he’s the one who needs the breathing room. No! The Apple isn’t even here, how on earth _could_ he use it – he doesn’t _need_ to use it, not for Abbas, not for this, even the win would be all wrong when he has promised Malik…

_We offer you power we offer you foresight we see the only way to save mankind we remember your rebellion we do not hold grudges_ use us _!_

“Everyone holds grudges,” he mumbles. Whatever she-he-it lives in the Apple has stalked and twisted Malik’s longing (or is it Altair’s own longing?) into that Kadar creature, and yet it speaks of no revenge?

“I won’t use you,” he says over the whirling clash of blades.

“What?” Abbas huffs out. “Are you even paying attention?”

“I won’t look for you and I don’t need you.”

_No need to look for us. We are here._

He glances up quickly and Malik appears in the doorway, Darim a step behind. They both look stretched to the breaking point, Malik especially, and as Altair sees them he sees the pouch on his second’s hip begin to glow.

_I won’t use the Apple,_ he thinks, but the Apple replies, _You will._

And then it all goes strange…

_-i-_

Malik’s first thought is, _Shit, we’ve distracted him._

Malik’s second thought is, _This isn’t right…what’s wrong with his eyes?_

Malik’s third thought is more a moment of revulsion as he realizes the Apple of Eden has burned right through the pouch and fallen heavily to the ground.

Behind him Darim whispers, “Father…?”

_-i-_

The gold sliver goes white hot in the old man’s hand, so suddenly that he cries out in surprise. This entire time he’s held the thing in one hand, ferrying it to the very wooden gates of al-Masyaf, picking his way down roads gone eerie and plague-still, and _now_ it chooses to come awake?

Bad tidings, he thinks. Bad tidings indeed.

_-i-_

The glow lines that form the world are all apparent to him now and this is not the world of fog and figure this is the world as he has glimpsed it only rarely this is the world as Al Mualim must have seen it the day he died this—

Altair turns his head and sees Abbas mouth-agape as well, so he’s seen it too, and they meet eyes for only a spark second of confusion before movement by the castle wall catches them both. Darim pushes past Malik somehow, moves towards them across the golden streams and gold-cracked tiles and gold-streaked grass, and then there is a cry and Ali is there somehow, popped up and out from a hidden corner of the trampled garden with a big butcher’s knife of a thing gripped tightly in one clawed fist—

Ali hurls himself on Darim and stabs again and again, the spurts of red blood a shock in this golden world. Abbas sees it too, Altair knows he does, sees him shudder. There is a pause where everything is still – Ali over Darim’s body and Malik in the doorway – _see he can’t protect you – see you need our strength, prophet’s sire –_ and then Altair’s mind goes perfectly amazingly wretchedly _white_ and he launches at Abbas with a roar, a cry the likes of which no eagle has ever made, only jackals and dying things.

Abbas, gone green around the mouth and taken by surprise, falls back with his arms over his face but can’t get clear. Altair is a devil. Altair is a whirl. Altair, the Son of None, is kin to no man now. No weapons – he punches, the blood and spit off Abbas lapping at his scarred knuckles, until finally Abbas turns and runs away across to the back of the garden, where it drops off into cliff.

The Son of None stalks after him. He is still empty and pure with rage, sightless even, transcendent in the glinting world. Though now he is holding his sword – from its holster? off the ground? – and that is comforting and true.

His target has run out of ground. Abbas stands panting, face swollen and bruised, looking frantically around with one leg against the stone Malik had put in for Kadar.

The Son of None swings. Abbas dives, with a yell, and the sword hits the stone and cracks it, spews shards. This time the Son of None laughs.

(Malik made a face once, after a joint mission of theirs: “You _grin_ sometimes, when you fight. Do you even realize you’re doing it or is it hardly you in there to smirk at the time?”)

Abbas is terrified now but he knows that if he can’t run and can’t climb, his pursuer guarding the walls, then he must fight. So he does, he tries, and even gets off a swing or two before the Son of None hacks his sword hand half-off and the blade with it. Abbas howls. Hunches up. Again the Master Assassin has no need for his sword so he picks the target off the ground with both hands fisted in his collar and lets him thrash around. Below his feet there is nothing but the river, a very long way down.

Abbas is spitting and swearing and scratching at his killer’s grip with his good hand, so the red-tinged sweat over his left eye drips down unopposed, and maybe it’s the blood in it that snaps him to awareness, maybe it’s the assassin blood in him even still. He jerks suddenly, blinking furiously, cranes his neck to see over the Son of None’s shoulder. “Altair,” he croaks, “wait, wait, Altair, this isn’t – it isn’t how it seems…”

But he seems to grasp very quickly that it doesn’t matter, in the end, the shape of the world or what kinds of bile fill it up. His hand falters on the Master Assassin’s; he sees that this is a successful mission, he sees his death. He sees that even when they’ve both gone mad at once, he will always be the weaker of the two.

He cries against the Master Assassin’s hissing breath, “Please! I am just trying to understand!”

Someone else is calling to the Son of None from very far away. He narrows his eyes.

“I don’t understand!” Abbas says. “I am God’s faithful servant! I have always been! And yet – yet – why you? _Why always you?”_

Altair blinks and some of the golden hue is leeched from the garden. He feels dazed, dizzy, like coming up for air after half a second too long underneath.

He looks at Abbas. “I don’t…I don’t know,” he admits. “I’m sorry.”

Abbas’s face trembles, contorts, goes ugly beneath its bruises with disbelief and hate. Then-...

Altair will never be sure how it happened, looking back: whether he loosened his grip on accident or on purpose, or maybe whether it had anything to do with him at all. Maybe Abbas was the one to rip himself free, from this place where he was only a mission. Maybe it was his own destiny he fell into. Nothing is true. And so any of it could be true. It only depends on the story.

Altair stands looking down into the clouds below the cliff edge, empty-handed, the wind whipping his coattails and pulling his cowl into his eyes. But in the stillness it goes wrong again, that alchemic whiteness comes upon him again and again the world is gold-lined as it was when Al Mualim stood here last, projecting mysteries into the air. He stumbles, a hand to his forehead, until he is convinced that such a fall would not kill Abbas, that the man must have survived and even now be lurking and plotting in the canyon below. Unacceptable! Unforgiveable! He will leap down after the cur, he will come out of the Leap of Faith and shred Abbas to meaty ribbons with his talons, he will—

Just before he leaps someone grabs him by the shoulders, crying, “No, don’t! It’s the Apple!”

Altair staggers, comes out of the artifact’s grasp fully but in doing so surrenders all its foreign strength and quite a bit of his own as well. He falls to his hands and knees, sags against the supporting body. _Malik,_ he thinks, _Malik’s here,_ but when he turns his head it isn’t Malik but Darim, looking at him, holding him up.

“Father,” his son says, helplessly.

Altair yanks himself free and grabs at the boy, patting roughly at his chest and shoulders, all the places he knows he saw the knife go in.

“Stop, it’s fine, I’m fine,” Darim keeps saying.

“No. I saw-!”

“It wasn’t real, Father, none of it, it was all illusions from that, that orb thing. It had you and Abbas – Malik went to throw it down the stairs. Father, it’s finished, it’s ok. You killed Abbas.”

“Ali?”

“Not here, he wasn’t ever here. It’s ok. It’s done.”

“Yes, done, at last.” Malik comes up to them, stooping badly, hand to his shoulder. “Congratulations," he says softly. "You've won, Grandmaster."

But Altair can only look at his son and his second, and try to find himself in what their faces reflect back.


	17. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Little itty bitty wrap-up chapter, but next is the grand Jerusalem reveal we've all been waiting for these last several centuries (?).

**_The Reclaiming_ **

Hard to tell who is helping who, exactly, but Altair, Malik and Darim are making their way past the fortress’ courtyard towards the village when the commotion catches them up. Malik has been fretting about the rest of Al Masyaf, the village emptied of everyone but mercenaries and bandits and traitors, who don’t realize their master’s been dealt with. Under normal conditions: hardly the effort of a thought. As they are now: a sincere and tremulous challenge.

But it seems as they cut down the main path that the fighting has forgotten them. Assassins streak down the alleyways and dart across rooftops, chasing men in the mottled garb of soldiers-for-hire and petty thugs, and after all the attrition of the past weeks it seems the assassins might have the greater numbers at last. Malik watches, bemused, thinking that no doubt they will find after the battle plenty of Brothers attempting to sidle back into the fold, hoping no one will look too hard at just where they’ve been and who they’ve supported. But there _weren’t_ all these Brothers left in Masyaf, so where has all this…?

Then they round a bend and a horse whinnies, and Darim says, “Look!”

It’s Maria Thorpe on horseback, dressed as an assassin but no doubt it’s her; she’s replaced cowl with metal helmet, for one, and her hair casts out from underneath it, past her shoulders. She’s giving orders to those around her as an experienced general and doesn’t see them at first. Not until Darim yells, “It’s Sef behind her on that horse,” and runs to catch up, being the only one who really can.

Maria dismounts when she sees him and grabs her eldest to her without a word. Malik feels Altair shift against his shoulder and glances at him.

“Let go,” says his Master, not harshly. “I need to…”

“Are you sure?” asks Malik. “It won’t be very impressive if you fall over in front of your family and the whole Order.”

But Altair shakes his head, pulling himself free, and Malik drops his arm, understanding. This isn’t about the Order or the general winning the day. This is about Altair, who must go to his wife and sons.

Malik watches him go – walking steady if a little slow – but turns away when he reaches them. This reunion, what is said…it isn’t his place.

The mercenary remnants are being dealt with, the fall of Abbas’s order is complete, so there isn’t much for him to do there. And while the days ahead will call on every strategy he knows, it’s too soon for all that yet – to sort the loyal from the foolish, to punish or forgive, to fix what stress-lines in the Brotherhood gave way under rumor and grudge, to convince the outside world that this was a bloody blip and not a fixed future. They have been forced to fight like an army (he smiles, Malik, to remember how badly he’d wanted them to do that once, when he was young) and it has cost them dearly in men and in standing with the rest of the world. And perhaps the Mongols are still out there after all, demanding their day.

Malik pats at his shoulder with a wince. He’ll be lucky if all he needs are stitches. He should find the healers and let his mind turn off for once. But instead he frowns, back up the way they’d come, frowning at the looming fortress and all it has and doesn’t have. A broken gravestone, deserted halls. And a weapon, hideous thing, too dangerous to go near, dropped behind the stairs and waiting, _waiting_ …

He turns back only when he hears his name called. Maria approaches him, helmet under one arm. Altair has been left behind on a bench, a son on either side, no doubt under orders to hit him if he tries to get up.

Malik bobs his head. “I won’t ask what brought you here, and I certainly won’t complain,” he says.

“You were successful, then?” Maria can’t quite hide her doubt and he grins.

“What, don’t we look it?”

She says wryly, “I’m only not running for the doctors because you both look like you’re about to die. I know the two of you are too stubborn to be the one to collapse first.”

“True, true. We’ll both just have to live.” He says, with another wince, “Though I think I might regret that.”

“Malik…” Maria looks unsettled. “I haven’t had time to get the whole tale off Darim but he said…the weapon?”

“It’s in the fortress, and it’ll stay there. No one should go near it, not yet. Not until we figure out how to destroy it – hide it, at the very least. From ourselves as much as anyone else.”

“You think so?” Maria asks, and he feels fragile muscles tense, can’t read her face. But then she sighs, he relaxes, and she says only, “It’s a shame. It could put us level with Europe’s kings, that device.”

“More trouble than it’s worth,” Malik says, and she replies, “I suppose.”

Then someone behind her coughs.

“Oh,” she says, “Right…” and motions someone forward. An old, old man, vaguely familiar, a local villager from the type of dress. He moves forward sheepishly but holds Malik’s eye with the sureness of a man who knows age makes him untouchable.

“We found him just outside the village,” Maria says by way of introduction. “He said he has something for the lords of Masyaf.”

“A demon’s voice!” the old man says, excited. “It tried to trick me! I think it knows everything that’s happened here, all the fighting. I think that’s what it wanted.”

“What ‘it’ are we talking about, Grandfather,” Malik asks. The old man produces a bit of cloth from the folds of his caftan, unwraps it and holds up his palm to—

The gleam of gold.

Malik sucks in his breath. Maria tilts her head. It’s a sliver of a thing, the gold shard glinting in the old man’s hand despite the overcast skies. Not a full artifact, he doesn’t think, but something broken off…what? Not the Apple, perfect and consuming.

 _How many of these things are there?_ he thinks, a fresh headache bursting behind his eyes. _How many of these clever, wretched things will we have to face? Who made them? Why? And what the hell are we supposed to do to stop them?_

The old man, sensing Malik’s distraction, is telling Maria some wild story of dead sons brought back to life. “That’s what it promised,” he says. “But then I heard what it brought back. Monsters. Things to make men go mad. Ways to control us, so we do what _it_ wants. I’ve begged God many nights over it and I know. It’s an evil thing and I was a fool.”

“You’re right,” Malik says, more to himself.

“Is he?” asks Maria. “This weapon…or weapons, maybe. Is it e _vil_ or is it just more than we can understand? More than we can handle?”

“We can handle all things that are ours to handle,” says the old man, who looks prepared if not delighted to debate theology with an assassin woman. “If this is beyond us then it is God’s, and if it’s God’s then it’s not our place to try and keep it.”

“You’re right, Grandfather,” Malik says again. He takes the kerchief, wraps it tight. “Some things aren’t meant for us. If the assassins can’t last without using the likes of this then we won’t last. Most things don’t. Better that than-…” He sees again the agony of Altair, blinded and deluded with losses he hadn’t suffered, about to throw himself off a cliff in his unnatural rage. And he thinks, how dare it! how dare it hurt Altair that way! how dare anything hurt Altair that way!

When he looks at Maria she sighs again but smiles. She isn’t as pigheaded as her husband, Europe’s kings or no. “Come, Grandfather,” she says to the old man. “Leave that gold to Lord Malik and take some rest, some refreshments. It must have been a hard walk…”

She trusts Malik to do what he will with it, and what he wills is to throw it into the river. But that would be foolish; suppose it washes ashore? No, what must be done is to hide it with its kin some place guarded and far, out of the reach even of armies and betrayals. And it will fall on Malik to find such a place, if it can be found at all. So though his palm itches just knowing it’s there he tucks the piece into his sleeve until a better spot can be selected. _I bring this on myself,_ he sighs, seeing all the long days and nights ahead.

“Oh, boy!” the old man says suddenly, from down the path. “Turns out you were right all this time. Just waiting and waiting wasn’t all there was to do. Sometimes we have to make the choice to let it end, and go on.”

Malik looks after him, puzzled. But then he hears Altair calling him, so he goes that way instead.

_-i-_

There is much to do and few to do it – the resettling of the Brotherhood. Both Malik and Altair are out of commission for many days, forced to give orders by messenger, and it’s hard to say who hates that more. Malik has Tazim kept with him, and looking at his healthy, squirmy child is to see all the sacrifices that kept him alive. Raed, Raed, Raed. They have not yet found his body.

Altair, meanwhile, sneaks away twice, much to the bafflement of his six (six!) guards, who watch the room’s only entrance at all hours only to find their Master walking among the returning assassins on the other side of the village. Finally Maria threatens to tie him to the bed.

Malik has fewer guards and bides his time. So no one sees him stroll his stitched, stiff body across the fortress to Altair’s rooms.

He thinks to discuss the Apple, what to do with it, who to trust, but when he sidles in around the guards he sees the other man’s asleep. He finds a chair, relief in his bones…to heal, and heal, and heal, to always be healing, to find new scars. It is no easy life. And he had – has? – a chance to be rid of it, to rid his son of it, if only he could – can? – find the strength to leave.

But there are many kinds of strength, Malik is learning, and some he has and some he doesn’t have, and of some he cannot be sure.

“Foolish man,” he tells Altair. “To sleep when you have your victory.” He smiles. “Though Allah knows you need it.”

Footsteps. He glances at the door to see Darim come through, a covered dish in his hands. Darim, who looks less a child now than he did yesterday, and will look less still in an hour. Darim, who’s killed and conquered this week, and wears that about his square-set shoulders. Darim: finally, fully, his father’s son.

“Dinner,” he tells Malik.

“You can leave it on the table there if it’ll keep. I’ll force it down his throat when he wakes up.”

“I can wait too,” Darim says, with a certain flicker of belligerence. Malik ponders it as the boy drags a chair over close to him – but not too close.

Silence. Altair is the one to break it after a time, with a low grunt as he rolls over. He’s stripped to the waist and Malik is perfectly aware the only reason he isn’t staring at those scar-flecked arms and that muscled chest is because Darim would catch him ogling.

(Altair is many things, including someone Malik much enjoys ogling.)

“I know what you said,” Darim says suddenly, and for a second Malik thinks he’s somehow been caught anyway and jerks his gaze away.

“What I said?”

“To Father. About your brother’s death.”

Malik adjusts himself on his seat, back aching afresh. Sitting is tough. “I’ve said many things to him about that,” he says.

“But you blamed Father for it, a lot. Right?”

“I did.”

“Even though…”

“Even though what, Darim?”

“Even though it isn’t fair!” the boy bursts out. “Father didn’t mean for him to die, didn’t mean for – everything that’s happened. And now you want to leave, I heard you say it, and you’ll hurt him when you do. How is that any better? Isn’t that cruel?”

Malik says sharply, “Words between men are not meant to be eavesdropped. You should keep yourself out of the business of others. I know I’ve told you this already.”

 “Forgive me, Uncle,” says Darim, but Malik can see that he isn’t an ounce sorry. The boy adds, carefully but in a crafty sort of tone, “You blame Father for killing your brother. But it wasn’t him, was it? It was Templars. Yet Father bears the guilt.”

 _Little assassin,_ Malik thinks as he meets that challenging gaze. _Fighting your loved ones’ battles for them, whether they want you to or no. Just like your father. God, so much like him. You’ll have such a difficult future, Grandmaster’s heir._

“Well, isn’t it cruel?” Darim insists. “To never forgive him like that? He’s _tried_.”

“He has,” Malik agrees. “He’s tried very hard.”

“Then how can you just leave?!”

“You can love someone too much, sometimes. You can hurt without meaning to, just by being around. I’ve been very cruel to him, Darim, you’re right.”

“Father’s not weak. He won’t mind. You’re his right arm, his closest friend, even Mother says so. He’d never want you to go.”

“I did warn him,” Malik says. “I did.”

“Warn him what? When?”

“A million years ago, and a million miles.” The _Dai_ of Jerusalem looks down on his Master, who has gone very still. How long has he been awake? Yet he won’t open his eyes. He waits there, Altair, and he listens. Because Malik warned him once, in Jerusalem.

 

 


	18. Before: Robert de Sable

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Altair to Malik: i wrote u a letter <3  
> Malik to Altair: Is this poisoned ink
> 
> Quite proud of this chapter and also quite happy to get these notes off my phone after two+ years. Familiar lines of dialogue are as always game dialogue that's been mishmashed in.

_Jerusalem_

_Before_

Kadar has ripped through the knees of his leggings again, which will get him a scolding by the training instructor. Malik looks on him with exasperated fondness: this full-grown little brother, all bright eyes and chatter, and the decapitated head resting bloody on his lap. But wait – Malik frowns. Kadar is much too young for missions. Especially assassination missions. And whose head is that, anyway?

Kadar holds it out to him, hands against its blue-blush cheeks. “Now don’t be mad,” he says.

“Why would I be mad?” asks Malik, and waves a hand at the clotted air. “It’s not your fault it’s snowing.”

“Now whatever you do, just don’t be mad,” says Kadar, and places the head carefully on the ground so that its eyes are watching Malik’s. Robert de Sablé is almost instantly covered by a snowdrift, and Malik begins to dig frantically, hands burning then numb with a cold he’s never felt – for he has seen snow only once, briefly, a handful of flakes that melted as they fell – but this snow is unending and he must find Robert, he must find his brother, he must find his parents and the flock, it would be easier if only he wasn’t ten…

The _Dai_ of Jerusalem snaps awake and is on his feet almost in the same movement. He swivels to the doorway of his little room, where Raed, masked in full informer gear, wastes no time with pleasantries or catch-up or for Malik to throw a robe over his leggings and bare chest, but launches into his report. “The rumors were right,” he says. “He’s here, just arrived. I saw him myself.”

Malik is already at his wardrobe, pulling knives and daggers down the way someone else might pull down cloaks and scarves. “Show me,” he says.

“My lord, de Sablé is heavily guarded and on the move, it might be better to…”

“ _Show me,_ ” Malik says. Raed bows his head.

_-i-_

Robert arrives in Jerusalem in spring, but Malik is distracted months before that. For some unknown reason, almost certainly just to be a pain in the ass, Altair has begun sending him letters. Quick-dashed scribbles on whatever paper scraps were at hand, creased from being tied to a messenger bird. Rarely do they come from Masyaf, but from whatever assassin waystation or bureau or wilderness checkpoint he happens to be in at the time.

The first few are simple descriptions of Altair’s mission, his day, as if Malik cares. The _Dai_ ignores three and responds to the fourth with a snarky line: _Ho, novice, when did you learn to read?_ But responding is a mistake, for it only encourages Altair – and Altair needs no encouragement to begin with. Quite despite himself Malik finds he is keeping an open eye for those letters, those descriptions of Damascus or Acre…because it pays to stay informed, he tells himself, since he cannot be anywhere at once and he has no high opinions of the Acre _rafik._ Because it is his job to know. No other reason but that.

The excuses don’t work so well when the tone of the letters changes. _I don’t understand,_ one missive begins, and for Altair to admit that is so unnerving Malik checks the ink for poison. _The connections between the men I’ve killed, I know it goes deeper than what Al Mualim has said. Templars and Saracens, corrupt men and cowards…but what is their goal? I know it is there but I cannot see it yet. I don’t have your sharp eye for plotting, I suppose._

Malik doesn’t respond to this letter because he doesn’t respond to any of them, after that one. But he keeps them, mulls over what they say. He hardly recognizes the tone of this Altair, and so it is hard to maintain the old familiar disgust. Harder, also, when he doesn’t have to see the Son of None in person, when he can imagine his hurt and shame walk somewhere else, fester in some other city. He reads the letters and can almost forget who sends them.

At least until Robert arrives.

He thinks it is a joke at first, the murmur that reaches his bureau – a foul joke. De Sablé, that ogre, here? The Brotherhood has seen and heard little of him since his failed siege of Masyaf almost three years ago. Malik figured the man had been pulled back into the ranks by the English king as punishment, and as the latest round of fighting heated up elsewhere. But he hadn’t gone out of his way to find his brother’s true killer. Al Mualim would never let him go after the man, to leave his post; to know Robert lived somewhere just out of reach would have drowned Malik once and for all in the sludge he is only now starting to think he might survive. Better not to think of it. Better not to know.

But when all Jerusalem’s spies, and all the power brokers, and every person in the city Malik trusts half worth a damn, begin to say the same thing, he is forced to consider it. De Sablé, in his city, under his sky. In the same place as Kadar’s long-lost bones.

Another letter comes from Altair: _Malik, I have heard…Al Mualim has sent me to finish what…_ The writing is messier than usual, and much has been crossed out. _If the Templar general is in Jerusalem then so am I. ~~I’ll~~ We’ll kill him together, Brother._

“Brother,” Malik echoes when he reads it. Is that what they are?

He waits until that night of bad dreams and cool breezes when Raed confirms the worst. Then he dresses himself in white robes and black, sprinkles himself in knives, leaves behind the broadsword that gives him trouble for the short sword he can hold in one hand. Will he kill Robert himself? Tonight? Will he have that bitter good fortune after everything he’s suffered?

Raed leads him over rooftops, directing the path with a flick of his head or a blink of the eye, choosing a route that will require less steep climbing of Malik. But their speed slows as they near the mansion Robert has hidden himself in. There are archers at all angles, the surrounding streets have been cleared of stands and pedestrians, and even the roof gardens have been taken down.

The assassins crouch behind the crenellations of a nearby building. Malik shakes his head. “It doesn’t make sense,” he says. “This is a Saracen-held city but those are city guards below. Why would they allow one of the top generals in their enemy’s army past the city walls? Why would they protect him?”

“Bewitched,” Raed suggests. “He’s definitely in there. Do we go in?”

Malik fists his hand against the dirty rooftop. His other hand, the one he doesn’t have, pulses with ghost pain as if to remind him why he’s here. He wants to go down there, sniff out the dog, rip him to pieces, leave him in shreds throughout the city.

“ _Dai?”_

“No,” he gets out through a tight jaw. “It’s too heavily guarded. I think we could find Robert but not without alerting every guard he has. It’d be a bloodbath, it could draw the whole bureau into something we’re not ready for. And we still don’t know why he’s here.”

And…Malik thinks of his long history with the Templar, remembers the lash, remembers the fear. The hot ethereal stink of Solomon’s Temple. If he is being honest, he isn’t sure he could defeat de Sablé. He isn’t sure his blade could parry Robert’s.

“Then what do we do, Lord?”

“We wait. We learn more about his plans, his convoy. We match a name to every face and a location to every moment. And Altair is coming back,” he adds. “We’ll wait for him.”

Raed says wryly, “Bad timing to have to deal with him on top of everything.”

“Mm,” says Malik. “Yes. We will have to make do.”

_Just don’t be mad, Kadar says._

_-i-_

 

He must prepare so he prepares. He must send out spies and track down informers, so he sends and tracks. He must send back to Masyaf the journeymen and informers’ families, Raed’s included, in advance of what may be a bloody fight, so he sends and sends and sends until everyone is alone. He must…he must…

He must see for himself, truly, so he dresses in obscure fashion and treads the muddy streets to that mansion that hosts the devil. Three nights he does this, wrapped in old robes and a cloak to cover his face, before the Templar comes out on the fourth, accompanied by a retinue a dozen strong. Malik dips his hands into a public fountain, pretends to be washing, until the last soldier’s gone past. Then he sinks further into the cloak and follows them into the depths of the limestone city.

Time has aged Robert some, even with a helm to hide his face. His shoulders seem more slanted. His hand never leaves his hip and the hilt of his sword, his eyes behind the mask never stop darting from face to face. A beggar woman, seeing the richness of his cloth and boots before she sees his bodyguard, runs up to him: “Please, please, don’t leave. You don’t understand, I have nothing.” He brushes her away roughly, with a hand squeezing her thin shoulder, a move Malik recognizes from a courtyard away as checking for hidden knives. Suspicious man, on enemy territory. But one who wears his regalia outright, even so.

It means a bribe – it means more than a mere bribe – that he can walk here so openly. Jerusalem’s highest powers have allowed this for some reason. They have allowed this despite Malik, who they know _of_ if not by face by assassin design. They _know_ the _Dai_ of Jerusalem won’t suffer these men, _this_ man, on his land but still they look away. Malik drifts after his enemy, just another body in the evening bustle, tasting weakness and execration like rotten meat caught between his teeth.

He could kill Robert, right here. Even if he died fending off the rest of them, he could take this man with him to hell. Finally become the shepherd killing the wolf. For so long it’s stalked his flock and what has he ever done to stop it?

Malik stops at a corner, watches the crowd swallow his target. He knows if he used his eagle’s sight now it would all be red: Robert, his men, the random passersby blocking him from them, the water vendor and the carpet seller with his stall full of hanging rugs and the beggar woman still darting here and there in grim focus. All of them, everyone, the entire wretched wasted world. Every single one he hates.

Which is why he can’t kill the Templar. Which is why he isn’t worthy.

 _Do not compromise the Brotherhood._ They must learn it young because it is so hard to master.

On his way back to the bureau, Malik remembers Altair. Talk about hate – although that one feels fuzzier now, frayed, compared to the fresh new bile of de Sablé in his city. Kadar’s murderer and Kadar’s betrayer…he cannot hate both of them the same way, unless they are the same person. He thought he could, once.

Malik swore at the Son of None once that they were nothing alike, but maybe it isn’t true. The entirety of Jerusalem bathed in red, the urge to shrug off all he’s been taught and sworn to uphold in order to commit real, unforgiveable slaughter…no, maybe he is no better. Maybe no man is any higher than a worm.

And then Altair arrives.

_-i-_

“Safety and peace, Altair.”

“Upon you as well, Brother.”

“It seems fate has a funny way with things,” Malik says, tartly. _Funny_ is barely the tip of what this is.

“So it’s true, then,” Altair says. “Robert de Sablé is in Jerusalem.”

Malik leans over his counter. He’s cleared it of all books and maps and candles, nothing left to get in the way. “I’ve seen his Knights myself,” he says, leaving out the other night.

Altair spits, “Only misfortune follows that man. If he’s here it’s because he intends ill. I won’t give him the chance to act.”

Malik is mildly surprised to hear the rancor blot out the usual smugness in his tone. He has spent these years thinking that only he bore a grudge; certainly Al Mualim lost no sleep after Kadar died! Rauf and the others were _sad_ , sure, they were _regretful_ to lose a Brother and a friend, but they were not the elder brother and they had not failed to keep a promise. That was Malik’s burden alone. And yet here before him now is Altair, drumming his fingers against the countertop, all pent-up anger and retribution, looking at Malik with narrowed eyes as if he thinks he understands the grief. As if he shares it.

How strange. Altair didn’t even like Kadar.

Malik sees it again, the city bathed red, and frowns.

“Do not let vengeance cloud your thoughts, Brother,” he says, trying for a lecturing tone rather than one of genuine concern. “We both know no good can come of that.”

Last time he hinted at Solomon’s Temple Altair turned purple. But this time…this time he only winces and looks down. “I have not forgotten. You have nothing to fear,” he says, almost kindly. What has _happened_ to him out on the road? “I do not seek revenge but knowledge.”

What has happened to Malik, that he accepts it?

“Truly you are not the man I once knew,” he says to himself, marveling. Altair is offering him caution and respect – respect for his worry and his wounds, not just his sword-skill and kill count and cock. “Of course, whatever man you are now I’m certain I won’t like him,” he adds, and is horrified to hear it come out as a joke. Horrified to see Altair suppress a little smile.

 “My work has taught me many things, revealed secrets to me,” the almost-and-always Master Assassin says. “But there are still pieces of this puzzle I do not possess.”

 “What do you mean?”

“All the men I’ve laid to rest have worked together, united by this man. Robert has designs upon this land, this much I know for certain. But how and why, when and where…these things remain out of reach.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Think of it. Master Al Mualim has had me kill specific men to regain my rank, right?” Altair looks down at himself. He has almost all his old weapons back; his time in exile is coming to an end, unlike Malik, who will never leave Jerusalem, never have more than this. As he asked for. As he thought he wanted. “I assumed at first they would be Templars or else minor warlords and the like. I…I assumed too much, about too many things. I see that now.”

“Mm…and were your assumptions wrong, then?”

“Yes. They weren’t all Templars. At least, they didn’t all wear the cross of the Knights Templar. Some of them were Crusaders, some Saracens…”

“Yes. Jerusalem’s regent, of course. You targeted men who threatened the peace in one way or another. Why is that so strange?”

“Because it wasn’t just that they were threatening the peace. I spoke to each man as he died. They were linked. Working for a common cause.”

 “Crusaders and Saracens, working together?” Malik asks, incredulous. “Nothing I’ve seen suggests that either side would allow for it.” Although, Robert does walk the Saracen streets unmolested…

Altair says, “They are none of these things, but something else. Templars.”

“The Templars are a part of the Crusader army. They target the Order because we stand between them and religious domination. We’ve known that since we were kids.”

 “Part of the Crusader army? Or so they’d like King Richard to believe. No. Their only allegiance is to Robert de Sablé and some mad idea that they will stop the war.”

“ _Stop_ the war? _We_ want to stop the war. The Templars want to spread it!”

“I tell you, Malik, these men spoke to me of peace and light and…” Altair brings both hands up to the counter and spreads them flat. “I know it sounds mad,” he says. “I know you have no reason to believe me. You are a spymaster and information-gatherer the equal of none save the Grandmaster. I know. But I know what I heard, also. With your help I can unravel it, _Dai_.”

“You spin a strange tale,” Malik says.

 “You have no idea, Malik.” Altair gives a sharp nod. “Tell me where he’s been seen. I should be after him before he slips away.”

Malik pauses a moment, to think but also to absorb what’s been said. “Three places I can say for certain: West of here near the tallest tower and the hospital, and to the southwest, at the Church of the Holy Sepulcher. See what you can learn. I will do the same.”

(He cannot hate them both…it is too much, he is too tired…and what does it mean if all this time Altair has _not_ forgotten? If Kadar and the cobweb damp of Solomon’s Temple haunt him too?)

“I’ll be quick as I can,” Altair promises.

“Easier when you were an asshole,” Malik mumbles.

“What did you say?”

Malik sighs, running a hand over the scratch of trimmed beard. He has gotten better these days about grooming, about sleeping, about remembering to eat, he has regained some of the weight he’d lost and maybe that’s why Altair watches him with a fresh hunger, almost relieved. But Malik hasn’t done any of this for him.

“Stay safe, my friend,” he says.

_-i-_

Malik is walking back from the market after several hours of working crowds as only he can when the attack comes. Amazing how much can be learned just by chatting with merchants and strategic cups of tea, saying in a friendly manner nothing of any importance while the other babbles without realizing he’s being pumped for more. And amazing what secrets a scholar will spill, if once you saved them from the soldiers.

It’s a soldier who jumps Malik near the market, though quite a clumsy, twitchy one. He batters at Malik with a big dull cleaver of a blade, more than Malik feels comfortable batting away directly with one hand. He steps quick and light, scattering loose stone as people around him scream and run. The sword misses his shoulder for the stall behind him, cracking the supports in two. Another strike and the whole thing crashes down in a dusty clatter of broken pottery and wood. Malik grabs a decent-sized hunk of wood just in time to fend off the next blow; the makeshift shield cracks down the middle and his wrist takes the brunt of it. Wincing he leaps the stall’s ruins to give himself some space, while its owner wails and pulls at his beard.

The guard trips over his own feet coming after, and then trips again – but it’s because he’s being grabbed from behind, Malik sees. Another assassin? No, a burly bearded man in a black tunic whom he’s never met before. Well, Malik will take the help. He throws the first two knives into the enemy’s wrists, to take the big sword away and keep the vigilante safe. The next knife hits the guard’s eye. The burly man lets go and steps back as the guard shrieks, and in two big footfalls Malik is there to seize him by the collar and pull him close.

“Tell your master the man in the Temple is coming for him,” he says, wraith-worded. Then he turns the guard around and throws him head-first into another stall, bringing that one down too. The rubble gives one big heave and then lies still.

Malik nods at his helper, who nods back. “You helped my sister when she was being harassed by these thugs,” the man says, and falls back into the crowd. _Useful_ , Malik thinks, _but I am no maiden fighting for her honor. That was targeted._

He brushes off his robes, winded. His wrist hurts like hell when he shakes it out. It’s only then that his neck prickles and he frowns. “Come to gawk?” he asks without turning around.

“No. Come to help,” Altair says, crouched like an eagle on a balcony railing with both eyes fixed on the rubble’s unconscious guest. “I heard the commotion.”

“Well, I still live. They’re getting nervous and they’re getting silly, to attack me one on one. Sorry to disappoint you.”

“That you live,” Altair says, “is not a disappointment.”

Malik finally turns to stare up at him. “I’ve hated you for years,” he says. “I’ve cursed you. I’ve mocked you. Believe me when I say I’ve wished for your death many times.” Altair shifts, hidden within his cowl, saying nothing. Malik glares. “What the fuck do I have to do to get you to hate me back?”

“Is that what you want? For me to hate you?”

“It would be fair!”

“That is not an answer.”

Malik snaps, “Maybe you aren’t entitled to my answer. Maybe you don’t get to have _everything_ whenever you demand it.”

Then, a surprise: Altair reaches up and pulls his cowl down. Here, in public, with a crowd still gathered to gawk at the soldier and the quarreling assassins.

“You’re right,” he says. “Maybe I don’t.”

Malik searches his eyes, looking for jest or irritation, but can only see honest apology and the reminder that it has never been easy to look Altair in the eye – and he is out of practice. For more than two years now he has only glared at the man’s mouth or spit on his shoes.

“…This isn’t the place for this,” he mutters at last. “We should leave before more guards come.”

Altair nods, drops down and falls into step beside him. It is almost years ago, it is almost Masyaf, it is almost two Brother-lover-friends returned home in satisfied success from a mission they shared.

“You must have found something good to rattle them into such a stupid assault,” Altair says.

“Maybe. I’m not sure yet.” Malik rifles through what he’s learned – rumor of funeral, of vigilante justice, of revenge – as they cross the narrow, crowded streets and pass into the wide courtyard in front of the bureau. Malik stops to wash his bloody hands in the fountain, Altair waiting a step behind. When they climb the ladder to the roof Altair offers no help, nor impatience as Malik hauls himself up one-handedly. When they jump down through the roof grate they land almost in the same motion, the same space, crouched low so that their coattails brush together.

“He’s still here, that much I know,” Malik says as they enter the main room. “I’ve heard talk of a funeral…”

“And I’ve heard talk of Majd Addin. But they must have buried that corpse long ago.”

“They did, but at the time my men reported no ceremony. It was a hushed-up affair. Maybe no longer.”

“Would Robert attend his funeral?”

“Who knows what that dog is plotting? Where he’s hiding or what he plans…these remain mysteries to me.”

“I’ll continue my search, then.”

“Fortune favor you.”

“Oh, Malik, before I go: an amusing story for you.”

Malik pauses at his counter, wary. “What you find amusing I find troublesome.”

“I ran into one of your men,” Altair continues as if he hadn’t heard. “He was cowering in some corner, said he’d been shadowing guards on your order and twisted his ankle in the process.”

“Hmph,” says Malik. “So what? Who needs four limbs to do a job?”

The silence that follows is incredibly awkward.

“…I killed the guards for him,” Altair offers. “He’s the one that mentioned Majd and suggested the city scholars might know more.”

“Did you get this supposed assassin’s name? Just because he failed his exceedingly easy task did not give him the right to hand it to you.”

“I don’t know. Hamid, Hakim, something.”

“Excellent info-gathering, Brother, I thank you.”

“He was an ass. Seemed to find the idea of my talking with scholars entertaining.”

“Everyone in the Levant knows how badly you deal with people. So the moral of this story is I have an inept assassin working under me and you don’t know how to hold a basic conversation. Was this supposed to be a funny tale, did you say?”

Altair huffs. “It’s _funny_ because he was terrified. Not of being found by the guards. Of you. ‘Altair, you must help me, Malik would never have forgiven me!’” He gives Malik an approving little grin. “Quite the bureau you run.”

Malik shrugs. “I have no patience for assassins who whine over _twisted_ _ankles_. But if he was so rude to you, why did you bother to help?”

“He was a Brother,” Altair says. “It’s the Creed.”

“Oh,” says Malik. “Yes. The Creed.” And whatever levity they might have shared, it ends here. A good thing, that Altair is learning what it means to be in a Brotherhood. A bad thing, that it took him so long.

The _Dai_ studies a bruise newly purpling on his wrist. Might have snapped something in that fight after all. Altair sees him looking. “Are you alright?”

“It will heal, or it won’t,” Malik says. “Be about your business, Brother.”

“When this is over…” Altair begins, but Malik shakes his head.

“Don’t assume it will ever be over,” he says.

Once Altair would have angered at that, no doubt. But today he only nods.

_-i-_

Two days later Altair comes back to the bureau and barges in despite the handful of journeymen waiting for Malik’s orders.

“That assassin, Hakim or whoever—”

“Hassam, Altair. How can you be this bad at names?”

“ _Whoever_. I saw him just now and he was—”

“Oh, nothing serious, just running laps. After what you said I thought his training could use some refreshing, that’s all.”

“Yes, but Malik, he was…”

“Wasn’t skimping, was he? I saw his so-called twisted ankle, and I wasn’t impressed.” He sighs noisily, shaking his head at the next man in line. “If an assassin can’t run a few simple laps then I just don’t know...”

Altair coughs. “Malik.”

“Yes? What did you want?”

“Exactly what is Hamid running laps around?”

“Oh,” Malik shrugs. “The city.”

The young assassin before him says: “Um. Sorry, _Dai,_ sorry to interrupt, but what…part…of the city?”

“The city. Outer walls, inner walls, the rest of the walls. Altair, really, I’m busy. Did you need something?”

“Not a thing,” says Altair.

“Great.” Malik smiles at the journeyman. “Ready for your assignment?”

_-i-_

Because Altair can do nothing quietly, he brings a whole battle to Malik’s bureau the day he earns his mission. Malik is in his room, supposedly reading a letter from the Damascus _rafik_ on the difficulty of contacting Al Mualim _,_ but really staring into space, distracted, unsettled. It is a cool day, a cloudy day, it is…it is all _wrong_. All of it. Yesterday Altair attempted to cook a stew and he burned it and Malik laughed. He _laughed_. Sent a novice out for bread and meat, ate his meal together with the Son of None, discussed fighting tactics as if he were hale and whole and as if this all were _normal_.

How can it be normal? How can he dare?

“Shifty little schemer,” Malik mutters, “trying to win back my trust.”

But is Altair the schemer, when Altair has always been honest that he will take whatever Malik has to give? No. The _Dai_ is the one who should know better. Robert de fucking Sablé sits in his city – in Kadar’s city! – and the man who left the A-Sayf brothers to rot acts as though he will bring justice and as though that justice is all Malik needs to forgive him, to fall back into his arms.

Malik shouts, “I won’t forgive you! I can’t! Goddamn it, how can you…”

He crumples the letter. He kicks over his table. He takes a lit candle in a jar and dashes both against the stone floor. Sits down with his feet in the mess and his back to the wall, heedless of the broken glass.

“Kadar,” he says, his voice a whisper and a prayer and a groan. “Please. I can’t…”

Someone says his name, and his heart gets stuck mid-beat. “Kadar?” he whispers.

When the yell comes it doesn’t sound quite the same. But he knows it for what it is this time. Fool, he chides himself. Of course. Assassins are fighting and his men are shutting the roof grate. Of course that’s all it is.

When he goes out into the antechamber he sees that he is right. Raed and some journeymen are all gathered around, focused upwards. The grate’s been closed for the bureau’s protection, as is the protocol, and upon it Altair fights and dances.

“Three, four…five men, against him,” Raed notes. “And some archers, we saw their arrows hitting the roof.”

“Maybe someone should help?” a journeyman says. “Five men plus archers is a lot for one man.”

“Not yet,” Malik says absently. “Not for him.” And he knows Raed is studying him now, more than the fight above.

That would have bothered him a year ago. He would be cursing and wishing for the arrows to find their mark a year ago. But now he—

Now he watches Altair feint and parry, with all the mastery of gods. See the way his feet slide against the grating, the way his body holds its balance. See the grace and beauty with which he shoves one man off the roof and cuts another across the throat. See the way he leaps to the roof garden on the building across the way, as if all the space in between was nothing, as if he never doubted he could fly. The way the wind bears him, the way the ground holds him, the way the city welcomes him. Malik’s city. See how Altair moves across it as though he knows it just as well.

The Master Assassin – for truly that is what he is – grabs the roof of the garden structure and with the sheer strength of his upper arms lifts up, swings and kicks an approaching guard in the chest with both feet. The man falls backwards and off the building. “That’s three,” says the journeyman. “Oh-! No, it’s four,” because Altair has whipped a guard around by the arm and let the man take the archer’s arrow. He rolls away from the body and leaps across the roof in one sinuous motion as he advances on the last of the pursuers.

But wait-! Another shadow just behind the roof garden. Another soldier and Altair doesn’t see and Altair could die here and Malik could let him die and all his men are watching him and no one dares take a breath and Malik has not forgiven and Malik is tired of grudges and _Malik_ …!

“Behind you, idiot!” he says.

Altair hears and ducks a sword strike that only just misses his scalp, though it rips the cowl off. He snaps that man’s neck like it’s nothing, which is enough to send the remaining guard and archers scampering away like cowed mongrels. Then the Son of None stands at the edge of the building, staring through the grate and into the bureau, the wind in his hair, staring at Malik.

“Open the grate,” Malik rasps. Louder, when no one moves: “I said open it! Let him in.”

He comes in slowly, shoulder first, as if he expects a trap. Malik waves him into the main room and orders everyone else away.

“Well,” he says, when they are gone and it is quiet.

“Well,” says Altair.

“That was some fight you brought to my doorstep.”

“I’ll clean the blood up if you’d like. Once I’m done spilling it.”

“That will take too long. Hm.” Malik goes back to the safety – yes, how pathetic, back to the safety behind his counter. He’s turned into just another old greybeard rooted in dark dust, while Altair is out in the sun taking back his birthright by force.

When the silence becomes too heavy, Malik says: “You’ve the scent of success about you, Brother.”

“I’ve learned much about our enemy.”

“Share your knowledge, then. Let us see what can be done with it.”

“It is as you suspected. Robert and his Templars walk the city because they’ve come to pay their respects to Majd Addin. They’ll attend his funeral, which means so will I.”

“What is this that the Templars would attend his funeral? A Saracen Muslim funeral?”

“I’ve yet to divine their true intentions, though I’ll have a confession in time,” Altair says. “The citizens themselves are divided: many call for their lives, but others insist that they are here to parley. To make peace.”

“ _Peace_?”

“I’ve told you,” he says, a touch impatient. “The others I’ve slain have said as much to me.”

“That would make them our allies,” Malik says, sarcastic. “Our brothers! And yet we kill them. I’m not sure you’ve thought this through.”

Altair shakes his head. “Make no mistake, we are nothing like these men. Thought their goal sounds noble, the means by which they’d achieve it are not.” He hesitates. “…At least, that’s what Master Al Mualim told me.”

“Al Mualim, mm? He’s told me nothing at all in recent times, nor the other city leaders. I begin to wonder…”

“Wonder what?”

“Nothing. Forget it. So what is your plan?”

“I’ll attend the funeral and confront Robert.”

“What, no fanfare? No great righteous plans to earn yourself more credit? I know how you like your crowds.”

“No,” says Altair. “A simple death for a worthless man.”

“The sooner the better,” Malik says. Again, the silence. He busies himself looking for a feather. “I’m glad you told me Robert’s location. Now comes the hard part. You should hasten to the funeral before it’s too late.”

Altair stares at the feather. He doesn’t take it. After a moment, Malik reaches over and places it in the other man’s pocket himself. “Fortune favor your blade, Brother,” he says.

His hand brushes Altair’s hip when he withdraws it. They both start like they’ve been stabbed.

“Well,” says Malik, and coughs, and tries again. “Go on then. Do your work and I’ll do mine, and…”

“Malik.” Altair lifts his cowl back over his head, something defensive in the move. “Before I go, there is something I should say.”

“Be out with it.”

“I’ve…I’ve been a fool.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Normally I would make no argument, but what is this? What are you talking about?”

“All this time…” Altair says, almost in wonder. “I never told you I was sorry. Too damn proud. You lost your arm because of me. You lost Kadar.”

Malik looks down. Hears his brother’s easy laugh above the rushed beat of his pulse.

“You have every right to be angry.”

_Kadar._

_Now don’t be angry, Akhi._

_I understand now, Malik. He’ll come back. For you._

“I was cruel and it was my fault,” says Altair. “I – I have never respected anyone as I have respected you, and I hurt you. Took Kadar from you. And I’m sorry.”

“I do not accept your apology.”

Altair hunches his shoulders. “I understand.”

 “No. You don’t,” says Malik, who hears himself talking as if from several rooms away. “I do not accept your apology because you are not the same man who went with me into Solomon’s Temple. And so you have nothing to apologize for.”

“Malik—”

“Perhaps if I had not been so envious of you, I would not have been so careless myself. I’m just as much to blame.”

“Don’t say such things.”

“We are one. As we share the glory of our victories, so too should we share the pain of our defeats. In this way we grow closer, we grow stronger, we…” He has to stop. There is a pain in his throat like a lump of burning coal.

“Thank you, Malik,” Altair says.

Malik points in the direction of the antechamber. “Rest if you need to, Altair, that you might be ready for what lies ahead. You know, I wonder what Al Mualim has planned for you once Robert is dead. You’ll have your full rank back. You’ll have everything you wanted.”

“What I wanted,” Altair says, “was your forgiveness. Your mercy.”

“Oh,” laughs Malik, “that fickle thing. Anyway, I suppose we’ll have to deal with the Templar’s remaining forces. Only time will tell. But this much is certain: the Holy Land is a better place because of you.”

“Malik?”

“Go on now, Brother. I have things to do here.”

When Altair leaves Malik presses his hand to his throat and digs his nails into the flesh, trying to force down air. Is he a coward? Is he a traitor? Why does he hear Kadar’s delighted giggle in his ear?

“I can’t,” he says. “I can’t hate him anymore. I can’t _blame_ him anymore.”

But that too is a danger. For now there is only one man left to blame.

_-i-_

The hush of Jerusalem at night is like no other. You can see, thinks Malik, why this city is a holy place. God is in the heat-baked brick, in the browning hills, in the flush of stars above, in the ancient ways. His father would say God is in everything. It would be so nice to believe.

But he is not a believer, and the spectral quiet is not something he trusts.

He sits cross-legged on the bureau’s stone rooftop, leaning back on his hand, looking up. There’s hardly a breeze tonight. In preparation for Majd Addin’s funeral (tomorrow, so many months after the actual death that it can only be a plot) he’s sent most of the bureau’s assassins elsewhere. Raed and most of the higher ranks are already in place about the city, eyes on the next day’s bloodbath. The building is empty and Malik is alone.

Thinks he is alone.

Just as he is sighing that he can’t see Solomon’s Temple from here – a good thing? a bad? – there are soft footsteps behind him. He grits his teeth. Only one person could get this close without his noticing.

“You remember that time on the tower ledge,” Altair says, squatting down beside him. “When I said I’d jump and you told me I would die.”

“Probably you wouldn’t have,” Malik says. “You always seem to come out of things just fine.”

Altair sits fully and knots his hands together. “Some things are easier to survive than others.”

“No need to tell me.”

“No.”

“I wonder if that Templar has any idea what we intend for him. It should be interesting to see how he reacts to your arrival.”

“Malik…”

“As I said before, whatever tomorrow’s outcome it’s a good thing you’re doing for this place. For its ghosts-…”

“Malik.” Altair puts a hand on his shoulder. He stiffens instinctively, because it’s been so long since he’s been touched by, well, anyone. “What I do tomorrow I don’t do for this city or Al Mualim or even Kadar. Only for you.”

He forces a smile. “Still on your quest for penance? I told you already, there’s no need for…”

“You’re wrong. Of course there’s a need. For as long as you hate me there’s a need.”

“Oh, I don’t hate you.”

“You do.”

“I already said I forgive you, and I meant it.”

“Yes. But deep inside you still—”

“You don’t know anything about me deep inside,” Malik snaps. “How predictable your bullshit is! You think you know everything! How I think and what I want! You don’t know a thing.”

“I want to,” Altair says, voice low.

“And I want to be alone right now but clearly what we want is not…”

“Alone, what, so you can sulk some more? You haven’t had enough of that already?”

Malik shouts, “If I want to sulk for the rest of my goddamn life it’s none of your concern! Don’t think I’ve spent my time here thinking of you.”

“What good does it do? What does it bring you?”

“It brings me my brother, you son of a bitch.”

“Kadar,” Altair says, “is the last person in the entire world who would want you to sulk.”

“That doesn’t matter either, seeing as how he’s dead. You do nothing but push, push, push, Altair, you always think you know best. Well, some of us aren’t as strong as you. Some of us are _tired_.”

Altair hackles. “You think you’re the only one who’s suffered these last years?” he demands. “The only one with regrets? I have traveled from city to city and I have killed for men who hate me more than they hate my targets and I – I have never been able to find it.”

“Find what?”

“Find _you_. Damn it.” He picks up a loose piece of roof tile and hurls it against the side of a taller building next door. “I came to Jerusalem and you looked at me with such loathing and I thought that at least you hadn’t forgotten. At least you knew who I was. But it wasn’t enough. To hurt you so completely and not know how to solve it. To think that in ten years, thirty years you would still be here. You know how silent the desert gets at night. Silent winds but it brings voices. Never yours. Kadar’s—”

“Altair, stop.”

“I would have gone to the darkest pit in hell to bring him back,” Altair says. “To save him, and you. I should have done more at Solomon’s Temple, but I couldn’t believe you’d really die. Either of you. I always got everything I wanted up until then, because I was strong. Too strong to realize how vulnerable it all was. I should have done more. I hear it in the desert every night.”

“For fuck’s sake.” Malik drags his hand across his face. “I forgave you, I meant it, we could have left it there. We could have settled this as friends, Altair. Why do you have to _push_?”

The Son of None leans towards him. “Admit it, Malik,” he says. “You and I have never been the type to _settle_.”

Malik starts to say something. Altair kisses him first.

Altair’s lips are on him and his tongue and his hands and some part of Malik that he has been guarding, coating carefully in amber each day, some part of him that he thought hardened beyond repair wilts and dies and comes alive and oh god. Oh, god. Altair kisses the side of his neck, kisses his collarbone, kisses his shoulder. Pulls his robes down to expose his aborted arm and kisses the stump of that too.

Something in Malik is screaming, and something in him is overcome with joy, and he’s so hard it actually hurts. And Altair is still kissing him. And he is kissing back.

“You’ll forgive me,” Altair is muttering, over and over, as he works his way down. “You’ll forgive me. You must.” He gets Malik’s leggings off, the _Dai_ lifting his hips to help, and takes Malik in hand and then in mouth. His mumbles cut off to a steady hum. Grit digs into Malik’s hand as he braces himself, it’s so good, it’s still so good, the feel of Altair’s tight throat, the sight of him so very focused with his eyes closed and his cowl askew and his hair a tangled mess.

Malik doesn’t scream when he comes and Altair doesn’t make a face when he swallows. In all the time since they last fucked these are the only changes.

Malik pushes Altair off, adjusts himself, stands up, walks away. “Shit,” he says sobbingly. “Shit.” And of course Altair comes after him and grabs his arm and of course Malik yanks away.

“You’re right,” he spits. “I do hate you, I think I always will, and do you know why? Because you act like nothing is wrong, when _everything_ is wrong inside me, Altair, everything. Yet you keep coming after this, this failure, this _cripple_ …” He jabs his kept hand towards his lost one. Altair is watching him, mouth open slightly and still glistening in the corners with Malik’s orgasm.

“You, hah, you always have been right, actually,” says Malik. “About Kadar. I should never have had a brother. When I couldn’t even keep one measly promise…! And look! Now there is no brother and I’ve no one left at all and I’m barely an assassin, you were right about that too – the choice was Master Assassin or shit and sewage and I have sipped so much sewage in Jerusalem that I forget how water tastes. I should have been like you all along. You were right.”

“No. I wasn’t.”

“Of course you were, Brother! How much smarter you’ve always been! If I had only left Kadar with some peasant somewhere and left my heart with him too, put the Creed there instead until it – I – until we were all just words and murder…fuck! Why don’t you just leave? Why don’t you just leave me here?”

(He is, a part of him, aware that he is shouting, aware that he must sound deranged. He is aware that his hand is fisted in Altair’s tunic, and Altair has let this happen.)

“All along I said I blamed you for Kadar’s dying and I was wrong,” he says. “I lied. Not you, not Robert. Me. Only me. But as long as I could hate you – as long as I could have that, Altair, that one last little thing, then I could get through the day in this body without wanting to rip out my own eyes. But now I don’t even have that. You’ve taken it! Do you understand?”

And then he says it. Says it and it will follow them both from place to place, victory to victory and defeat to defeat. A haunting. The Apple is only following precedent when it brings Kadar back.

“If I hated the sight of you it was because I loved you and I always will,” Malik tells Altair in a torn, muddy tone. “I need you even with what you’ve done and I am worthless for needing you, and I know that, and it doesn’t matter. It isn’t enough to stop. Nothing is. You want my forgiveness? It’s yours. You want my affection? You have it. You want me to debase myself? Fine, I will. Only let me rest a bit, from all of this. Altair, it would be better for both of us if you killed me here.”

Altair puts both his hands on Malik’s to loosen it from his shirtfront. Without changing his grip he lowers them both back to the floor, so that Malik must tug and shift and struggle and ultimately lean against him. Who knew the Master Assassin could be so tender?

“I don’t want you to debase yourself,” he says.

Malik scowls. “Of course you don’t.” But already he is calmer.

They sit like that for some time. Malik feels…tired. It isn’t good, it isn’t bad. It just is.

“If you need to blame me, I understand,” Altair remarks. “You should blame me.”

“You say that now, novice. But I think…I think I will forget sometimes, this forgiveness. I think I will be very cruel to you.”

“Be as cruel as you’d like. I can bear it.”

“…That is in no way a normal or healthy response to any of this.”

Altair shrugs. Malik feels the rise and fall of his shoulder against his cheek. “It’s the only response you’ll get. Only…”

“Only what?”

“Only don’t leave again. You’re mine. I’m yours. I don’t know how else to be.”

Malik gives a wet scoff. “The great Master Assassin doesn’t know how to live without the _Dai_ of Jerusalem calling him names? The almighty Altair without whom the Brotherhood would fall?”

“I don’t think I am so mighty,” Altair says, thoughtful. “Especially these last months, coming here, making sense of it all…I think there is only the Creed to trust in. I’ve ignored it long enough. And you are the one who’s taught me what it is the Creed really means: protect your Brothers. That’s all. And if that’s all, then I am not so strong, but I’m strong enough to carry both our burdens.”

“Is that so.” Malik straightens up to run a critical eye over that familiar, handsome face. “You do remember I, ah, called you a half-breed once. Your parents’ bastard. Said something about you dying in the gutter…”

“Is this an apology or a retread?” Altair grumbles.

“Apology, but only because it’s been three goddamn years since I’ve had anyone suck me off and I think _you’ve_ been practicing.”

“Please,” says Altair. “I’ve no need to practice. I’ve always been the best.”

“Do you know, novice, that if you talked ninety-nine percent less you might be halfway tolerable?” Malik turns his gaze back to the city, jagged skyline of minaret and tower. “Altair, tomorrow – be about your mission well,” he says. “Every moment Robert lives is a moment longer than he deserves.”

“I will kill him,” Altair says. Malik believes.

_-i-_

Exactly what happens the day of Majd Addin’s falsehood funeral Malik learns only after it’s occurred. The Templar gathering, the empty coffin, the woman in Robert’s suit of armor – he has time to digest it later, so that when first he is introduced to Maria Thorpe he is able to swallow that she worked willingly for such a killer and still sound halfway polite. It helps that by then de Sablé is dead. It helps that by then Altair has been proven right.

“It was a trap!” barks the Son of None the day his assassination fails. He storms into Malik’s bureau. Malik has just finished raging with and at Raed and so has less rage to spare for Altair.

“I heard the funeral turned to chaos, what _happened_?”

“Robert de Sablé was never here. He sent another in his stead. He was expecting me.”

“How did my spies not _see_ this? You must go to Al Mualim.”

Altair grinds out, “There’s no _time_. She’s told me where he’s gone, what he plans – if I return to Masyaf he might succeed. And then I fear we’ll be destroyed.”

“Between your targets and mine we have killed most of his men. He cannot hope to mount a proper attack – wait. Did you say _she_?”

Altair takes to pacing in front of the counter. “Yes, it was a woman. Strange, I know, but that’s for another time. For now we must focus on _Robert_. We may have thinned his ranks but the man is clever. He goes to plead his case to Richard and Saladin in Arsuf, to unite them against a common enemy. Against _us_.”

Malik leans back against his bookshelves, tries to think beyond the clear pure rush of _still alive still alive that_ bastard _still alive!_ “Surely you are mistaken,” he tries. “This makes no sense. These two men would never—”

“Oh, but they would. And we have ourselves to blame.” Altair sneers. “Have _myself_ to blame. The men I’ve killed, men on both sides of the conflict, men important to both leaders. Robert’s plan may be ambitious, but it makes sense, and it could work. How strange that Al Mualim never considered this!”

“Look, Altair. Things have changed. You are not the grand Master Assassin who can go off on his own tangent whenever his gut tells him. You _must_ return to Masyaf.”

“If I do, by the time I track the old man down, Robert will have escaped. Do you want him to get away?”

“It doesn’t _matter_ what – we cannot act without our Master’s permission! You know that! You told me you knew that!”

“This is different, Malik, listen to me. It makes sense…”

“Like going after Faraj’s killers made sense?” he snarls, last night’s frenzy and folly flashing before him yet again. “Like _Solomon’s_ _Temple_ made sense?”

A harsh swallow, gravel down his throat, Altair mute before him, defenseless and somehow the worse for it in Malik’s eyes. “To compromise the Brotherhood…” he says. “I thought…I thought you had learned this.”

But then Altair slams his hands upon the counter, leans in so close Malik’s instinct is to go for a knife.

“Stop hiding behind words, Malik! You wield the Creed and its tenants like some shield. He’s keeping things from us, important things.”

“You accuse our Master of betrayal?”

“As if you haven’t been hinting at the same all along. You were the one who told me we could never know anything, only suspect. Well, I _suspect_ this business with the Templars goes deeper. When I’m done with Robert I will ride for Masyaf that we may have answers. But perhaps you can go now. This is _Robert_ _de_ _Sablé_ , Malik. Don’t you also want him dead?”

“I cannot leave the city,” Malik says, faint.

“Then walk amongst its people. Seek out those who served the ones I slew. Learn what you can. You call yourself perceptive – you _are_ perceptive, more than I. Perhaps you’ll see something I could not.”

“I don’t know. I, I must think on this.”

“Do as you must, my friend,” Altair says, voice gone suddenly gentle. “But it’s time I ride for Arsuf. Every moment I delay, our enemy gets one step ahead of me.”

Malik could yell at him. Could, as the bureau leader and technical higher rank, order him to stop. Could send a messenger, even, to warn Al Mualim.

“Be careful, Altair,” he says.

“I will be. I promise.” Altair pauses in the doorway. Looks back at Malik, with yesterday’s words still showing on his face. Reaches a slow hand back behind his head and lowers his cowl to his shoulders so Malik can clearly see his eyes. Will Malik ever understand this man? Will Malik ever come to terms with him? “Trust me on this, Malik,” says the only person he has ever loathed and loved in equal measure, all at once and all the time, with impossible, awesome force. “Please.”

Trust him? Again?

(“ _Safety and peace, Malik.”_

_“Your presence will deliver us both.”)_

What else can he do?


	19. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So ends a bulk of work that has hauled me right through my 20s. Wow. Alarming. This finishes the Battle of Eagles series but if they ever remaster AC1 or give us more AltMal content you know I'll be right back here typing up assassin soap operas.
> 
> Thanks for all your reviews over the years! Thanks also to nemonus who gave great advice on this chapter as she gave great advice on most chapters, although in this case I ignored most of it because Self Indulgent I Am Unstoppable.
> 
> (This has been ready for a week but it didn't feel ready. Then I realized it wasn't right to end without a word from Altair, so I added his little bit in there. Fun game to play: go back and reread the last chapter of And When the Earth Shall Claim Your Limbs and then read this one, and count the parallels! It's my hope that there are some in there that I didn't even realize I was putting in.)

**_Epilogue_ **

**_Impossible Things_ **

****

He has a strange dream, Malik, at the end of a night.

It wouldn’t be so surprising except that he’s hardly had the energy to dream these last three months. The rebuilding of an Order as vast as the Brotherhood – there are men in far places who learned of the coup only after it ended – is no easy task, for any of them. To his credit Altair has taken the worst of it on himself: he puts himself out among the peasants and the novices, little though he likes it, and he goes from suspicious face to suspicious face and humbles himself in turn.

Weeding out the betrayers – novices have mostly been forgiven without punishment but banishment or worse awaits the traitorous higher ranks – has kept Malik busy, even with his Sight and Altair’s combined. And still there is a sense that they have not gotten all of it, that the rot goes deeper than the man, down to the oaths he brings to life.

_We fight like an army, but we aren’t one._ They have debated it, into the night: how the Brotherhood should look. The world is different now than it was when they were kids. The Crusades ending and the Mongols still out there, the kings fallen and the kings newly crowned. The Templars remain their enemy, clearly – no one has found Ali’s body yet – but they have learned other ways to hide besides in the robes of the retracted Knights Templar. Robert de Sablé, Malik thinks, he who grabbed at generals’ ears and attempted full-frontal assaults, would not recognize the army he led before Altair finally shoved him from its top.

Perhaps it is time for a more stealthy, truly assassin approach, ‘till they find their way in this new land. Perhaps the Old Man of the Mountain and his fortress of killers is a legend showing wear about the details. Perhaps…

But all this ruminating brings Malik dead, exhausted, dreamless sleep, until the dawn of a day like any other he’s had.

In the dream he is at home. Not his home _now_ , small two-room space at the very edge of Masyaf, with a little leafy courtyard out back, room enough for himself and his son right now. And it is very much _right_ _now_ , Malik has made clear. One day it might not be enough space. One day it might not be far enough away from that fortress of stone and secret. One day he might want to take Tazim over mountains and across seas, to see new places and shed old ones. He has told Altair all this and Altair has understood, or done his best to understand, the uncertainty and hurt flicked past his face but he at least has tried. Tinges of Jerusalem rooftops in how they make their peace. And for now Malik has made himself a place in the village, in the Brotherhood, that he can handle.

This is not the place he dreams himself in. In the dream he’s in the home of his childhood, the small house, the fields stretching out past the eye’s limit, the sheep bleating behind the pen. In the dream he knows he’s dreaming, clear and cognizant a dream though it is, and he goes to look at the sheep with a certain wonder, holding out his hand for them to sniff and lick and sneeze on.

Then he turns around and of course Kadar is there, squatting on his haunches in a bit of tree shade.

“Oh,” says Malik.

Kadar looks much older than he has the last times Malik’s seen him. Looks his age, in fact, with a hint of beard and wrinkles around the eyes. He’d be – early thirties? Mid-thirties? Somehow the older brother has lost track.

But at least he looks like _himself_ now, and not like the hideous bulging Apple creature he’d been before. But that… “That wasn’t you,” Malik says aloud. “I know it wasn’t.”

Kadar stretches his arms over his head, then pats the ground next to him. Malik walks over and sits down.

“Sorry, Malik,” his brother says. “I guess it hasn’t always been so easy.”

Malik shrugs. “Whoever said it was supposed to be?”

“But Tazim is cute! And stubborn, I can tell. I’ve got a little warrior nephew. He’ll get into _such_ trouble, it’ll be great.”

“Still isn’t talking yet, though. I wonder if all the disruption hasn’t…”

“He will. He’ll be fine.” Kadar says with a wry grin, “Just don’t hover over him like you hovered over me and it’ll work out.”

“I’ll try. No promises.” Malik hesitates. “Kadar…”

“Mmm?”

“Nothing. Never mind. It’s a beautiful day, isn’t it? We should enjoy it.”

“We can enjoy it anyway. What is it, Malik?”

He frowns. “It’s just…this is a dream.”

Kadar shrugs. “OK.”

“And so that makes this a bit of a meaningless conversation, doesn’t it?”

“Huh?”

“Sitting here talking with you – I’m not complaining!” Malik says. “I’ve missed you so much. But you don’t actually know anything about Tazim talking or having a nephew. You’ve never met him. It’s been…you died so long ago, you know.”

“Oh, Malik,” Kadar sighs. “Can’t you ever just enjoy a thing?”

A sheep bleats. From the direction of the house Malik can hear the thin call of a woman singing.

“Sometimes we don’t know things,” Kadar says, and it makes sense in the dream but Malik’ll puzzle over it awake for years to come. “Sometimes we can’t know, until it happens. I don’t know. Impossible things or not, that doesn’t mean they all have to be bad all the time.”

But Malik places no stock in impossible things. “It’s not really you now and it wasn’t really you then. With – with Altair, what he was seeing and talking to. And all the times in the bureau when I thought maybe I heard…I didn’t. I couldn’t have,” he says.

“You couldn’t have,” says Kadar. He grins. “Stubborn older brother, just like his son. Always has to _know_ all the time.”

Well, it’s true. Malik leans back against the tree truck, arm across his lap, enjoying what feels like real sun and real breeze and a real easy, peaceful day.

“Remember that time you left the pen open and the ram got out?” Kadar asks. Malik shivers.

“Sure I remember. I was the one who had to chase the thing down!”

“Father helped a little bit.”

“More than a little bit,” he admits with a laugh. “But at the time it sure felt like I was the one who was going to get eaten.”

“By a _sheep_? Who are you, Altair?” Kadar gets a wicked little glint in his eye. “Altair is still afraid of sheep, you know. He’ll _never_ tell you. But he is.”

“Hah!”

“I’m glad you didn’t leave, though, _Akhi_. That would have been rough.”

“What?” Malik frowns at him before remembering this is nothing but his subconscious talking itself out. How else would Kadar know how close he came to going for good?

He shakes his head. “I still might. I don’t know. Altair is…”

Kadar scratches his cheek. “He’s Altair. He can’t help it.”

“That doesn’t make it easier.”

“Whoever said it was supposed to be?” Kadar teases.

Malik groans. “Listen to you! So scandalized when you found me and him – and now you want to play matchmaker?”

“I like watching Altair squirm,” his little brother says, serene.

“And here I thought you were always his biggest fan.”

“I am! Have you seen the kick-flips he can do?! But sometimes he’s a jerk and I can’t let him get away with that, can I? What kind of brother would I be? I’ll be a little cackle at his shoulder, although not all the time because that’s an awful arrogant shoulder and, uh, no offense, Malik, but sometimes that shoulder gets naked along with your shoulder and then I want to claw my eyes out. But like. _Supportively_.”

But this is more pretending than Malik can do, even in a dream. “I know that’s not true,” he says.

Kadar looks confused. “What’s not true?”

“The cackle at his shoulder – Kadar, I said already I know this is a dream. And not just a dream, but…” Malik looks out into the distance. The fields. The sheep. His mother singing out of sight. The life that was his once. The life that could have been. The life he’s spent all his days trying to redeem, or live up to, or make up for. Some apologies have to end, though, he’s learning. It isn’t fair to Altair and it isn’t fair to himself – isn’t fair to Kadar, either – to carry around these stones even after throwing them aside. Sometimes forgiveness has to be unyielding to be real.

“I guess this is the last time I’ll see you,” he says. “Altair’s hidden the Apple. And I…” He touches his brother’s hand. “I think I have to keep going,” he says.

“I know,” says Kadar, and closes his fingers around Malik’s. “Don’t worry about it.”

If time can pass in a dream it passes then, until Malik blinks and yawns. Kadar twists to look at him, wide-eyed, young again, the beard gone and the grey bleached out, a child’s face on a child’s body. “Oh, not yet!” he says.

“Not yet what?” asks Malik, although he also doesn’t want to go. The idea comes to him: if this is the last time, then let it be like the first. He stands up, dusts himself off…with _both_ hands, he realizes. And yet he feels off-balance now when he hadn’t just before! Oh, how strange. He shakes out the hand he hasn’t had for years, Kadar at his shoulder, his mother’s voice behind, his father in the sheep pen hard at work, and he knows what he’ll see when he looks up. And he looks up, and he sees it.

Long and low, grey tangled fur, fangs bared in a snarl below eyes squinted in focus. Claws and snout and musky wild smell. Malik laughs. Finally, the wolf.

“Uh oh!” Kadar says.

Malik says, “I’ve got it, don’t worry.” He turns to reassure Kadar with a grin but then he wakes up instead.

_-i-_

It’s Tazim’s fussing that’s awoken him. He sits up, rubs his eyes, wondering. Strange, strange dream. How many times he’ll have to say goodbye.

Well. This time’s for good. It has to be. If he’s going to keep moving on in this life.

He goes to the baby and scoops him up. Someone knocks at the door. “It’s open,” Malik says, his hand full.

A messenger opens the door and bows his head, but doesn’t bring his feet over the threshold. “A message from the Grandmaster,” he says, then recites from memory: “The architect says the space will work, but it will take long hours of chiseling under such a heavy structure. There will need to be enforcements and other routes added, of course. You should come see for yourself. The Grandmaster will be gone for three days to the mountain village to discuss things there. He is thinking of stationing Darim there as a guard, it will be a good spot to learn patience in, but he will hear your opinion first. He will come to visit you tonight, before he goes.”

“Very well,” says Malik, and the messenger leaves, which in retrospect is a shame because new faces are sometimes enough to distract Tazim into a better mood.

Sure enough, Tazim kicks out a little leg with a whine. Malik settles into a chair, props his son up between his legs and smoothes the sweaty ringlets of hair, but Tazim keeps whining. Usually that means a louder, more involved cry is coming. Malik sighs.

“It’s the best space for that thing, at least for now,” he muses. “Deep underground – we’ll change the plans as we have to so that no one else can find it, of course. I don’t know. If I thought I could get him to destroy it…if I thought it _could_ be destroyed…”

Tazim scrunches up his face, a real yell building. He lashes out at his father with a pudgy fist.

“Don’t be mad at _me_. I didn’t create the Piece of Eden. Or that little broken piece the old man found…a whole world’s worth of these things, waiting to drive men mad for some reason only they know. At least he made it to his funeral at last, and it was _him_ they buried. Not some Apple thing.”

Malik gives Tazim a bit of his robe to distract himself with. It works, for a minute.

“I remember that map it showed us, after Altair killed Al Mualim,” he says. “Those lands on it that don’t exist. What if they do exist? What if we thought we knew all of it and we barely know a bit?” He shakes his head. “Let Altair build the library and put all that knowledge away. Braver men than us will have to master it. Maybe that’ll be your story, little assassin.”

Tazim lets go of his father’s robe, sniffs once and starts to wail.

Malik bounces his knee. “Noisy, noisy assassin,” he says. “Don’t you want to learn the rest of it, do what your father couldn’t?”

_(It isn't the worst wound he has suffered in his life. The battered, healing body he must haul around as he relearns his tasks – learns to hide his irritation, learns to listen to others first, learns to say, “These things are precious, and these people, and I will not cast them aside” – is a frustration but not an insurmountable one. Sometimes Altair thinks he would be better off_ djinni _than man, an immortal gathering of power not limited by the body’s meat, which must always wither and rot. But then he remembers the_ djinn _he has known in his life, and frowns, and shakes his head._

_It is not the worst wound. The worst wound he has known already. And he told the messenger to tell Malik he’d come later, but still he strides the paths of Masyaf to the place his heart and bulwark are. Malik will see him and raise an eyebrow and step aside, let him in. At least for now, for this time, if not for the rest of it, redemption and forgiveness not a moment or singular act but a lifetime’s work…_

_He has never been afraid of hard work, for Brotherhood or lover. Altair knows he is the weaker of the two, but he will find his way.)_

Tazim cries. And his father can’t know when he’ll stop, or when he’ll say his first word, or what battles he’ll win, or what losses he’ll suffer. Malik spent all his childhood guarding Kadar from a future neither boy could even imagine, but fate was there to find them anyway. Promises and stories. No endings, really, only different turns of phrase.

He thinks as he tries to soothe his crying son that there is so, so much he doesn’t know… So much he can’t know right now, about his future, about the futures of Tazim and Altair and everyone dear to his life.

He cannot know that Maria will fall in battle one day, a shock of white hair flowing from under her hood as she routs her enemies even at the last, her death the last great battle, the last days of Masyaf and its fortress center, the change that sends their descendants underground: to Italy, to Turkey, to new lands beyond any Al Mualim ever knew. The Order begins to contract with her death, as the Crusades give way to new wars and the assassins to new politics, to a certain kind of obsolescence. The focus goes elsewhere, after Altair builds his library: Venice, Rome, some place they’ll call America. Both Templar and assassin lose favor with the ruling lands and retreat to shadow. Al Mualim’s regimented army-Order becomes a thing of memory, then of myth.

Meanwhile in her death Maria is given the absolute respect – unquestioned, undoubted, from all sides and all parties – that she fought for so hard in life. She would not be sorry with her fate.

Malik cannot know, also, that Darim will die young, too young, a martyr at the blade in this twilight time to prove himself. Always so reckless...they were never able to smooth that out. But how could Altair’s son be otherwise? So they will bury him, and Altair will suffer that day as he has never suffered, and Malik – who knows from misery so sharp and near it builds up in your lungs till you cough it up like bloody consumption tissue – will hate Darim, just a little, as the dirt is tossed in the grave. But by then he will understand that hate is just grief’s kinder side.

He cannot know that Sef will leave too, in his own way, fleeing to Constantinople, to the faint reaches of the Order. All his days he will struggle with the secrets of his family, the burdens of his role. But he will marry before he leaves, and have children. Altair will see his grandson before his last son goes.

Malik cannot know that his own son will marry too, and have a son, and name the son Kadar in honor of the uncle he couldn’t ever have met. He cannot know that Tazim will also have a daughter and that Sef’s son will be handsome like his grandfather and even-tempered like no one Malik has ever met. That Tazim’s daughter will go with Sef’s family. That one day, in a different land long after both Master Assassins are gone, there will be another baby named Tazim – Altair’s great-grandson and Malik’s, both. That they will be as maybe they always were: parts of a whole, complete. And the legacy is sent down through the generations.

He cannot know that one day they will stand together as old men in the finished library, he and Altair: hair silvered, but the robes still a perfect fit. Altair will have a bit of a stoop from all the bones he’s broken in his life. Malik’s back will ache worse with each morning. But what they built together will surround them – the Apple hidden deep below strong stone, quiet, waiting. In the end neither man will be able either to destroy it or help it achieve its mysterious desires. But they will harbor it until the last of them.

Until Malik falters from disease, of all things, and how can he even be bitter? To live to be so old as an assassin master is such a ridiculous notion it’s a little embarrassing; not a day goes by that he doesn’t hear his old teacher Faraj’s voice in his ear, warning him of short life for the Brotherhood’s chosen few. He wonders if Faraj would be surprised or just delighted to have been proven wrong. Anyway at the end he’s tired, and misses his family, and knows his son will be fine.

And after Malik goes – this he cannot know but he can and does suspect – so too does Altair, quickly, weeks later, from what no one is ever quite sure. (And some say he never died. Some, the desperate in far cities crowded and crumbling, or distant pasture dried to death under the sun, or on stinking ships carrying cruelty and disease across the water, some say the Grandmaster could never be killed and would never die of his own doing. So he must still be out there. So he must be on his way. Malik, if he’d been alive to hear of these rumors, would have been delighted. Altair, who hated superstition, turned into a superstition all his own! Malik, if he’d been alive, would have started half the rumors himself.)

Whatever Altair goes from, Malik would not be surprised to know, he goes with a smirk. Because he outlasted the _Dai_ of Jerusalem, the cocky little shit, and because he means to mock Malik for all eternity when next they should meet.

Until that end, though, they guard the Apple, its dangers and its blessings, they guard their Order and their legacies and most of all they guard each other. As they have always done. Always so obstinate, these two old men.

Malik cannot know that he will come across Altair in the library and make his way down the slippery stone steps, a pain in his side and in his lungs that will be much more than pain very soon. He will tap Altair on the shoulder and the Grandmaster will turn, and look thoughtful.

“All I have done,” he will say without preamble.

“All we have done, novice,” Malik will agree.

“Maria would be quite impressed, were she here.” It’s a bit of a question. Malik will nod.

“Not only her,” he will say. “Our children, our families. To think of what my parents would say—”

“And Al Mualim,” Altair will mutter darkly. He is nearing eighty-five but he has never forgiven. “After all his scheming to separate us if he couldn’t have the both of us enslaved.”

“We’ve never been able to prove that.”

“I know it’s true. He saw your brother as an obstacle and saw a way to be rid of him. He used me and I let him.” Altair will hesitate. “Kadar…”

“Would be in awe,” Malik will say firmly, and soften his grip on his Master’s shoulder to a caress. “Surviving the Mongols, surviving the Apple of Eden, that time you threw Abbas off a cliff. He wouldn’t be able to stand it, he’d just implode. My god, Altair, do you realize – he’d be an old man now, if he lived.”

He will look around at the chilly, cramped space, sturdy shelves and trap doors under a high dome, deep beneath the fortress. A world-class library, built to hold just one thing. “ _Dai_ Faraj would be pleased with the scholarship we’ve done,” he will say. “And Hamid with how far our trade routes went.”

“Rauf with how annoying his damned recruits continue to be. I do not have the time to show novices how to swordfight! When did I ever have the time?”

Malik will laugh. “I bet if he were a hundred years old Raed would still be calling me _Lord_.”

“Yes, and…”

“Mm?”

“And my parents,” Altair will say, looking off at nothing, slitting his eyes. “If they could see what the Order became.”

Malik will say softly, “We’ve done a lot. We’ve become more than we were, more than we knew.”

Altair will lean back into his touch, humming agreement. Things will be quiet a bit. Then:

“Actually, Malik, I always knew I’d get you to scream yourself hoarse the first time we—”

“I will kill you,” Malik will sing out.

But he cannot know any of this yet.

Tazim is still crying. Malik hoists him up against his shoulder. “Any time feel free to stop,” he says. “I’m making myself nauseous with the rocking.”

The baby makes a small squeak of a sound little more than the exclamation: “-!” Malik drops his arm forward a bit, settling Tazim further down so he can see his face. “Done?” he asks. “Done or just getting started? Or haven’t you decided yet?”            

Tazim falters in his crying. He sniffs and wrinkles up his face, then brings a hand to his mouth and begins to gum at his fingers. Malik watches him, amused. Tazim tilts his head, sniffs again, is momentarily distracted by the sheer miracle awe of possessing a thumb. Then he looks back up, not at Malik’s shoulder exactly but a little ways past it, eyes narrowed. He holds the expression a moment, and then he smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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